


And the brave man with a sword

by blackkat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: All the Founders are amazing, But especially Godric, Epic Bromance, F/F, F/M, Friendship, Godric is amazing, Helga is adorable, Hogwarts Fifth Year, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No character bashing, None - Freeform, Rowena is terrifying, Salazar has bad press, The Four Founders, Unreliable Narrator, at all
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2018-03-20 13:34:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 119,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3652266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Founders have spent the last fifty years separated and drifting, but with Voldemort rising, they're headed back to Hogwarts once more. Between a wary Golden Trio, Umbridge, and Voldemort’s shadowy plans, there's little time to deal with their own problems, even though Godric knows it’s tearing the four of them apart—maybe even irreparably.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> This is totally not related to anything I should be writing at the moment. However, I'm currently 20k words into it and don’t seem to be stopping, so I'm venturing to post. That said, expect extremely sporadic updates. This is my guilty pleasure story, which I work on when I can't manage anything else. 
> 
> (Story title from _The Ballad of Reading Gaol_ by Oscar Wilde: _Yet each man kills the thing he loves/By each let this be heard/Some do it with a bitter look/Some with a flattering word/The coward does it with a kiss/The brave man with a sword_. Because Godric.
> 
>  
> 
> Also, the entire story is totally inspired by Tumblr and a picture of the Founders I found on Google images: http://www.zerochan.net/1637865#full)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the unreliable narrator is introduced, and there are haircuts, hurt feelings, and very few questions answered.

The first thing Salazar says to him, after more than fifty years without so much as a word, is of course, “What in the name of Merlin did you do to your _hair_?”

Godric huffs and crosses his arms over his chest, glaring at the other boy. Because she’s awful and a terrible friend and very much an enabler, Helga immediately starts giggling, ducking her head and half-turning away to hide behind a waterfall of honey-colored curls. “I hate you,” Godric informs her crossly, and then looks at Salazar. “And for the record, I hate you too.”

Looking entirely unperturbed by this protestation of abhorrence—which, granted, might have a little less impact after nearly a thousand years of repetition—Salazar just smirks right back at him. “Adorable,” he drawls, raising one dark brow. “But what does that have to do with the dead thing on your head?”

“A Chinese Fireball took offense at my intrusion into her nesting grounds. You're lucky my hair is all that she managed to get, or you’d have a very toasty corpse answering your call,” Godric retorts. Immediately, Salazar’s brows furrow into a deep frown, and Helga stops giggling, straightening up with a worried expression.

“A _dragon_?” Salazar repeats, looking half a heartbeat away from hexing him. “Godric, you know I have utmost faith in your abilities—”

“You do?” Godric mutters grouchily.

“—but you have the common sense of—of—”

“Of something very nonsensical, I'm sure,” Rowena cuts in dryly, stepping forward. She looks no less terrifying as a fifteen-year-old girl than she once did as an aged and practiced witch, and out of several lifetimes’ worth of habit, Godric automatically offers her his arm. She smiles at him, an arch, faintly smug curl of perfectly red lips, and tucks her hand into his elbow. “Thank you, Godric, very sweet of you. Let’s find a compartment before they're all filled, shall we?”

Salazar harrumphs, but follows as they head towards the gleaming scarlet train, and Helga falls into step with him. “I have a pair of scissors in my bag,” she offers. “I can try to trim your hair a bit, if you’d like. Or I'm sure Rowena knows a charm—”

“No,” Godric says instantly—perhaps a little too quickly, given the way Rowena’s perfectly painted nails stab into his flesh. It makes him yelp, but practice keeps him from pulling away; that would only make things worse in the long run. (He wonders for a moment, just vaguely, why he’s even friends with these people.) “Nothing against her charms, be they magical or otherwise,” he adds quickly, and Rowena is flattered enough to withdraw her talons. “But after that last incident in Moscow, I’d rather not have magic any closer to my hair than absolutely necessary.”

“I apologized!” Helga protests, though she still sounds faintly guilty. “And that’s why I offered the scissors. I'm much better with food charms.”

Salazar brushes past Godric, making him glance up for a moment, but the dark-haired wizard doesn’t look back at him, opening a door to check if a compartment is empty. It is, save for a young man sprawled out asleep in the corner, and he raises a brow at Rowena in question. She considers it with a tip of her chin, then shakes her head, and Salazar closes the door and heads for the next one without shadows behind the glass. “We know that,” she soothes the blonde, glancing back with a soft curve to her lips. Godric doesn’t protest when she pats his arm and pulls away, stepping back to walk alongside her friend. Helga beams up at her brilliantly, and Rowena smiles in return, the usually assessing and slightly distant look in her eyes buried under a surge of warmth.

Godric feels something tight and coiled and cold in his chest finally begin to loosen and ease. _This_ is why he’s friends with them, even after so long. Even after so many differences of opinion and arguments and fights he thought would break them apart entirely.

It’s been a long fifty years indeed, to go without seeing or speaking to a single one of them.

“Here,” Salazar says, sweeping into a compartment near the end of the corridor. “Now find those scissors. I refuse to be seen in the company of someone who looks like they had their head attacked by a Venomous Tentacula with Fire Rot.”

“Agreed,” Rowena adds, entirely unnecessarily. She closes the door firmly behind them, right in the face of a curious blond boy with pointy features. “And you’ve yet to tell us what you were doing in China in the first place, Godric. Is your Mandarin still as awful as I remember?”

Obediently, Godric allows himself to be steered to the floor, settling cross-legged with his back to Helga as she fishes around in her bag. “My Mandarin is just fine, thank you,” he retorts. “It’s amazing what being thrown headlong into a culture can do for one’s language skills. I was in the mountains, following rumors of another Philosopher’s Stone. The man was a complete hack, but he at least had the sense to build his lab in the middle of dragon territories.”

“And you had the complete _lack_ of sense to go charging in right after him,” Salazar adds with a snort, slumping down on the bench across from Godric with his arms crossed over his chest and his pale eyes hooded. “Of course. Business as usual, right, Godric?”

Godric’s temper, already chronically short and not at all helped by the two days of rushed traveling it took him to reach London in time, gives way with an almost audible crack. “Well, it’s not as though I could call anyone for backup!” he snaps, and then closes his teeth sharply on the rest of the words that want to come out. Their separation certainly hadn’t been his idea, but after he’d gotten Rowena’s message he’d made a resolution with himself that he wouldn’t say anything to that effect. There's been enough tension between them in the last century; he doesn’t need to be adding more.

Silence falls in the compartment, stiff and stifling. Godric can only see Salazar, but the Slytherin’s face is completely unreadable, blank as stone, and that hurts more than fifty years of empty loneliness. He looks away first, because he’s brave, yes, but not brave enough to show Salazar just how unhappy he’s been recently, and he knows if he holds that pale grey stare Salazar will be able to see right through him. He won't even have to use Legilimency; Salazar simply knows him too well, and always has.

“Well?” he asks gruffly, clearing his throat as he turns resolutely to look out the window. “I thought we were cutting my hair before it could offend your delicate sensibilities any further?”

There's one more long, lingering moment of silence, and then Rowena snorts, utterly at odds with her perfectly pressed, ladylike appearance. She crosses in front of Godric to take a seat next to Helga, just within Godric’s peripheral vision, and drawls, “Believe me, Godric, after a millennia of your company, it takes far more than that mop to offend anything about us. But I’d rather we not show up to the school for the first time in centuries looking like we picked a hobo up on the way somewhere.”

Her tone is one of practiced disinterest, carefully distant and amused, but there's a Scottish lilt to her words that usually remains mostly buried. The burr speaks of upset quickly buried, some sort of emotion swiftly but messily suppressed, and Godric has to restrain a wince. He’s often considered simply charming himself mute—it would eliminate most moments like this, though probably not all of them. Godric knows his own ability to stick his foot in his mouth, verbally or otherwise.

There's a softly indrawn breath from behind him, and Godric closes his eyes, berating himself. Helga, of course, would take that the hardest; she always hates it when the rest of them get hurt and she isn’t in a position to help. But the hand he can half-see is steady, and Godric keeps his mouth shut, both because if he says anything now he’ll probably just make it worse, and because he honestly doesn’t regret it. It’s true, after all. Just…somewhat more blunt than he should have been.

That’s always been something of a problem with him.

The snip of the scissors is comforting, rhythmic and steady, and Godric focuses on that rather than anything else, keeping his eyes firmly closed. Helga is gentle as she tips his head one way and then the other, turning him back around to face front. “Is short all right?” she asks softly.

“Of course. Whatever you think is best.” It’s as much of an apology as Godric is willing to offer, but from the light touch on his shoulder, she understands. After all, it’s more than likely Helga was none too happy with their parting, either.

Because, despite all of her iron strength and unbending will, Helga is above all quick to forgive, she laughs at him, scrubbing a hand over his fiery hair. “I don’t think I could manage anything else,” she teases gently. “I've yet to find even two pieces the same length. And there's still ash in your hair. Honestly, didn’t you even bother to bathe, Godric?”

“Of course I did!” Godric protests, wounded. “What do you take me for, a heathen? But I barely had time to get in the shower before Rowena’s message reached me, and then I had to leave immediately or I’d have missed the train.”

Rowena scoffs. “That doesn’t excuse you from basic hygiene,” she informs him, and then adds to Helga, “Isn’t that bit too long there? He’ll look more like a monkey than ever if you leave it like that.”

Godric rolls his eyes, but suffers in silence.

Helga hums softly, and then the scissors return, snipping more determinedly. “You're right.” She blithely ignores the sound of offended protest Godric makes. “Maybe…a little longer on the top? That’s popular nowadays. Spiky?”

“With that color hair? Too many spikes and he’ll look like someone set his head on fire. Again.” Rowena sounds all too amused, but then her tone changes to something far more businesslike. “So everyone knows their stories? I'm not going to have to make any last-minute adjustments because someone’s feeling ‘ _creative_ ’?”

Salazar, at whom this last bit is directed, looks unconcerned. He’s still watching Godric, though, so that could be a large part of it. “Of course, Rowena. We are the children of a group of scholars studying on the Continent, who have finally elected to send us to an accredited magical institution rather than continuing to school us themselves. I chose the name…” He grimaces faintly in distaste. “Solomon Silvius.”

“Heidi Hathaway,” Helga chimes in, and Godric can hear the smile in her voice. “It sounds like a film star’s name, don’t you think?”

“I will be Roberta Roanoke,” Rowena says, and then nudges Godric in the ribs with one of her sensible flats.

Godric gives her a grimace of his own, only for Helga to swat him in the back of the head for moving. “Can't I just keep mine?” he asks. “If our ‘parents’ are scholars, Godric is a perfectly sensible name to give their child.” Rowena nudges him again, more insistently this time—almost hard enough to be called a kick, honestly—and Godric gives in with a sigh. “Gideon. Gideon Griffiths. But let it be known that I think this is a ridiculous plan. I already went through puberty once; do you really think I want to do it again? And aging potions taste _nasty_.”

“Oh, silly me, I don’t recall asking you for your opinion.” Rowena is, as always, absolutely merciless. “Students are usually well beneath the notice of any adult. This way, we can ensure Hogwarts’ safety and see how it’s changed, without having to sneak around the castle to get everything done.”

Godric glares at her, even though Helga huffs at him for it. “We’re fifteen again,” he informs her flatly. “We haven’t been fifteen in almost a thousand years.”

“Then we’ll be very mature fifteen-year-olds,” Rowena parries, utterly serene. “Next objection? None? All right, it’s settled then.”

“You say that like it wasn’t already,” Helga points out, laughing, and then sits back and pats Godric on the shoulder. “There you go! Not quite like before, but it’s the best I can do with what I have.”

Rowena offers her compact mirror without him having to ask, and Godric peers at his reflection. It’s…short. Shorter than it has been in a long time, but he’d more or less resigned himself to that as soon as he smelled scorched hair. He runs a hand over it, ruffling it slightly, and then nods. “Thanks. It looks much better,” he tells Helga, who smiles brightly at him.

“Lovely, dear,” the mirror tells him cheerfully, and he spares it a quick grin before he tosses it back to Rowena.

“Not too many compliments or he’ll get a swelled head,” Rowena tells her mirror firmly, then snaps it closed and rolls her eyes at Godric’s expression. “Oh, stop it. You’d hardly be able to look _worse_ , idiot.”

“They say charmed objects take on aspects of the enchanter’s personality,” Godric retorts, his grin unwavering. “Do you find me _attractive_ —ow! Rowena!”

“Roberta,” she corrects pitilessly, withdrawing the deceptively sharp toe of her flat from his side. “Though I suppose that in private allowances can be made, so long as it doesn’t slip your mind in public, Godric.”

Godric just laughs, even as he rubs his abused ribs, because there's a certain warm slant to her blue eyes that he’s going to take to mean that she missed him just as much as he missed her.

A warning whistle sounds, and out on the platform there's a collective rush for the train. In the hallway, several people glance into their compartment, looking for seats, but Salazar’s dark glares drive them onwards without hesitation. Though he thinks about protesting—because he _always_ protests when Salazar is being a tetchy bastard—Godric decides to keep his peace. Salazar gives him a look, one brow slightly quirked, but Godric just shrugs, and a moment later another tentative clutch of students turns the other wizard’s scowl back on the hall.

“Really, Salazar,” Helga says reprovingly, though her heart clearly isn’t in it. “You don’t have to look at them like that. There's plenty of room for a few more in here, don’t you think?”

Noticeably, Rowena keeps her mouth firmly shut, even though she’s normally quick to take Helga’s side. Godric exchanges swift glances with her, equally silent, because Helga never takes well to pettiness and selfishness, but all either of them wants to say is, _after fifty years, can't we keep it just us for the next few hours?_

Salazar, as ever, has absolutely no compunctions saying exactly what the rest of them are hesitating over. He crosses his arms, pulling cold grey eyes away from the hall, and says sharply, “No, I don’t think so. It will be better for all concerned if there are no outside ears listening in. We’ve much to discuss, and I’d rather not start breaking out the memory charms already.”

Under any other circumstances, Helga would argue. She would plant her heels, would insist they make good on the innate fairness and sense of honor that makes her the most chronically underestimated and deceptively harmless one of the four of them. But the years have taken their toll on Helga as well, and with only a faintly disapproving huff she gives in, sinking back in her seat and frowning at Salazar in what is most definitely disappointment.

Because he’s an idiot and far too soft where the girls are concerned, Godric would throw himself off cliffs to get away from that look. Salazar just meets it with an unimpressed arch of his brow and looks away, just in time to narrow his eyes at a dark-haired boy with bottle-green eyes and a girl with long red hair, who are passing their compartment. The girl narrows her eyes right back, while the boy looks somewhere between sheepish and indignant as they continue on.

Gryffindors. Godric smiles to himself. He’s missed the certain brash, fearless personality that’s so common to his house. It will be nice to be among them again, even if he’d much rather be among them as a teacher, rather than a fellow student. But if Rowena has one great fault, it’s her tendency to overcomplicate things, so they're stuck as teenagers once more.

It could be worse, Godric supposes. They could be caretakers or groundskeepers or such. Or she could have one of them masquerading as the giant squid.

“Get off the floor, Godric,” Rowena says, toeing him in the ribs again. Godric winces, hopping up solely to escape the bruise that’s likely already forming, and takes refuge in the seat farthest from hers, next to the window on Salazar’s side of the compartment. Salazar snorts derisively at him, and Godric scowls back, deeply offended, because that’s any sane person’s reaction to Rowena. Not cowardly at all, and he would know, given the House he founded.

The silence lingers for a moment longer, heavy even over the hum of the engine and the clack of the wheels. Godric turns his attention out of the window, trying not to brood with the return of the tension between them. Nearly a thousand years they've been alive, and the last fifty spent at opposite corners of the globe was the longest stretch of time they’ve ever been apart. A year here and there, certainly, sometimes a decade or two when they're especially tired of each other, but never half a century. Never so long that it feels a little like meeting strangers, to see them again.

For all that they haven’t aged since they left Hogwarts the first time, the time still passes as slowly as ever, and fifty years is still fifty years.

And…it hurts, that Rowena and Salazar could so casually suggest separating, when the thought had never so much as crossed Godric’s mind. Hurts especially that Salazar wouldn’t bring it up when it was just the two of them, but planned everything out with Rowena and then simply said, _“We’re parting ways here,”_ as though it meant nothing to him.

They’ve fought before, of course. They’ve all argued and quarreled and held grudges. But this was none of those things. Just…a weariness of each other’s presence, and while Godric is confident in their ability to eventually mend fences from any sort of disagreement, he doesn’t know how to fix something like that.

“You said the Philosopher’s Stone you were looking for was just a rumor, Godric?” Helga asks softly, just barely loud enough to break the quiet. Godric glances away from the glass to find a warm sort of empathy on her face, undercut with a familiar pain, and he smiles at her. Helga is in the same boat as him, suffered the same thing, and he can't forget that.

Pulling himself upright in the seat, he nods at her. “Yes. Just a concoction of mercury and some qilin horn. Nothing to worry about. The wizard was absolutely mad, and not just for setting up shop squarely between six nesting Fireballs.” Then, because he knows Helga, knows what interests her far more than grand tales of battles and daring escapes, he digs through his memories and comes up with, “I stopped at this little village at the foot of the mountain, though, and their food was good enough to make the entire trip worthwhile. They had these steamed buns filled with pork and ginger, and I swear, they were better than anything I've ever tasted before. Soft and light, with a thick sauce that spilled out over your fingers and a fragrance that filled up the entire market.”

Helga’s eyes are bright, as expected, and she clasps her hands together with an excited, intent expression. “Oh, that sounds wonderful! I wonder if I could recreate it somehow. Surely some of the elves must have an idea of the recipe, and…” She trails off thoughtfully, then reaches for the notebook in a pocket of her traveling robes.

Pleased with himself, Godric braces a shoulder against the wall of the compartment, smiling softly at the sight of Helga scratching away furiously, mouthing ideas to herself as she writes. She’s lovely. So sweet and kind and gentle, and Godric hears some of the things people say about her and her House now and has to laugh, because if there was ever one among them that he had to fear, it would be Helga. She’s never bowed to others’ notions, never let herself be held back by misconceptions and prejudices. She forges her own path, holds to her own ideas even when it puts her at odds with the other three Founders. Because Rowena, Salazar, and Godric—they took in the best, those capable of becoming great and giving them reputations, bringing them fame, but Helga didn’t. She stood firm before them and declared that she would accept anyone who wished to learn, with no thought given to blood or power or genius.

Helga awes him, and always has.

When he finally pulls his gaze away from where she’s winding her gold curls into knots, Salazar’s eyes are on him, pale and sharp and unforgettably intense. Godric holds that gaze for three heartbeats before he has to look away, throat tight and gut churning. He just…can't.

Pointedly, Rowena clears her throat. She’s giving them both a look that is for once entirely lacking in subtlety, and a single flick of her eyes to Helga drives her point home further. She wants to Have A Talk, and likely clear up whatever hard feelings their separation left between herself and Helga. Godric knows, from long exposure to her methods, that Rowena will hammer through every argument set against her with the logic that she wields like a weapon, and leave her opponent feeling slow and a little foolish—or greatly foolish, depending on her aim.

Just this once, Godric has the feeling it won't work out as Rowena intends, but that’s likely to be expected. She doesn’t handle emotions well, and never has, while Helga’s upset over the last fifty years is entirely emotional. Still, Rowena is going to try, which is a far sight better than he and Salazar, who during their banishment from the compartment will most certainly stew in their respective bitterness, talk about everything but the pink hippogriff in the room, and return out of sorts and still entirely at odds.

Regardless of the probable outcome, because he can take a hint when it’s razor-edged and as threatening as Rowena’s glares always are, Godric rises to his feet, automatically reaches for the sword he is no longer carrying, catches himself with a sigh, and announces, “I'm taking a walk. Salazar, care to accompany me?”

Salazar stands smoothly and moves to the door without waiting for Godric—a clear sign that, even though he pretends indifference to Rowena, he’s just as susceptible to her as anyone. “Very well. I suppose someone has to take responsibility for keeping you out of trouble.”

Godric directs a scowl at his friend’s back as he follows him towards the front of the train. “I resent you making me sound like an addled infant. I hardly need looking after, Sala—Solomon.” Another grimace, this time self-directed, at the slip with the names. The corridor is empty, but they're now technically in public, and for all his protests against this plan, he won't ruin the charade before he absolutely has to. If only so that Rowena doesn’t gut him in his sleep.

Salazar looks back at him, then pauses just long enough for Godric to fall into step with him. It’s practically a welcome back hug, coming from the frosty Slytherin, and Godric can't fight the small smile that crosses his face as they walk on side by side. He’s never been able to hold grudges, honestly—his anger is like a grassland fire, blisteringly hot but burning itself out in short order. And more to the point, he’s never been able to hold grudges against Salazar, who is and always has been his best friend.

Still, the silence lingers between them for the entire length of the train as they make their way to the front and then turn to head back. Godric _hates_ it. Once, the air would have been easy between them whether they spoke or not. They could have walked in silence and been fine. Now, what happened between them weighs like a stone, like iron, and worst of all, Godric can't even tell if it’s entirely one-sided. Is he the only one to feel resentment? Is he the only one who their separation affected?

Godric is old and learned and very, very powerful, the greatest duelist to ever live. He’s equally skilled with wand and sword, has a knack with magical creatures and a deft hand with children. He doesn’t _need_ Salazar to be himself. There is no sense of being adrift, no silly sentiment to make him dive off cliffs or such when he misses the other man. But even so, they’ve been together for a very long time. Since they were children themselves, dreaming of peace in a world without. Dreaming of safety, a haven, a place to learn and grow—if not for themselves, then for others who deserved it just as much or even more.

For years, for centuries, Godric has walked side by side with his best friend, his partner. To suddenly be without that, for reasons he can't quite comprehend, is…jarring. Honestly, after the second decade of wandering alone, Godric had almost thought that the four of them would _never_ find their way back to one another. That they would wander, separated and divided, until Hogwarts crumbled into dust and took their bodies with it.

Foolish thoughts, perhaps, but Godric feels entitled to his little bits of drama. He doesn’t indulge in them very often.

But—

But Salazar is here now, and so are Rowena and Helga. They're together again, returning to the school they founded, and even if things are still uneasy between them, Godric is willing to grit his teeth and bulldoze through for the sake of what they once had. For the sake of the companionship so easily broken, but which he has always treasured above all else.

That’s as good a place to start as any, right?

“So did you manage to get anywhere interesting over the break?” Godric finally asks lightly, resigning himself to friendliness. He’s not entirely over his resentment, but…he can let some of it go, certainly. Stretching his arms up, he pops his spine and smirks a little at Salazar’s wince. So predictable.

Apparently reading that thought on his face—or in his mind, the damned Legilimens—Salazar gives him a glare, but inclines his head. “I spent some time in Egypt, working with several curse-breakers there. It was…inspiring.”

“The curses or the breaking of them?” Godric asks dryly, because that’s predictable, too. Salazar loves his Dark Arts, his strange magics and uncommon potions. Many times in the past Godric has felt as if he were competing with them for Salazar’s attention, and forever losing.

He still feels like that, actually. More so lately, as is likely to be expected.

Because he _does_ have manners and some little bit of tact, no matter what Rowena might say, Godric shuts that little sour part of himself away, asking, “Any interesting creatures?”

Salazar glances at him, sharp with an undercurrent of fondness and a vague hint of what might even be wistfulness, though Godric tells himself firmly he’s just imagining it. “You and your beasts, God—Gideon,” he says, though it’s not nearly as derisive as it could be. And the slip with the names is gratifying. “I'm surprised you didn’t try to make _friends_ with those dragons and get you face melted off in the process. That would certainly be par for the course, wouldn’t it?”

Offense during this particular argument is long since over and done with, as they’ve had it so many times. Godric rolls his eyes. “Hey. I’d like to remind you that the Thestrals were _my_ contribution—”

A raised voice cuts him off, and Godric glances forward again to see two looming figures snickering to themselves, firmly planted on either side of a much smaller blond boy who is sneering into a compartment. Godric’s smile dies a quick death, to be replaced with a sharp frown; he’s always hated bullies.

Of course, Salazar’s never liked them all that much, either.

“My, my,” the taller man purrs silkily. “A prefect abusing his power already? And not even well at that. Are you sure you're a Slytherin?”

All three offenders spin, the blond boy going red. His eyes flicker from Godric to Salazar and then narrow. “We don’t need a couple of noble Gryffindors sticking their noses in it,” he snarls, puffing out his chest so that the prefect’s badge is even more noticeable. Godric almost rolls his eyes before he catches himself. Salazar is right; this boy is far too blatant to be a Slytherin. “I'm just doing my duty as a prefect of—”

Salazar snorts, pointed and a thousand times more derisive than he’s even been to Godric. “Gryffindor?” he repeats, crossing his arms over his chest and straightening to his full height, where he has several inches even on Godric, who is in no way small. “You think that _I_ am a Gryffindor? How quaint. I suppose that next you’ll be calling me a Mu—”

“Sal,” Godric cuts in sharply, knowing what the next word is going to be. Salazar is always going to be proud of his own bloodline, and dismissive of everyone else; that’s just the way he is. His prejudices are a thousand times better than they used to be, at least, now that Muggles aren’t burning entire families as witches.

“Muggleborn,” Salazar finishes smoothly, not even glancing at Godric. His hard stare never wavers from the blond boy’s face, even as he produces his wand with an elegant twist of one hand and fingers it thoughtfully. “As I was saying, are you sure you're a Slytherin? Surely one of our noble House could do far better than such careless and heavy-handed threats. Where is your subtlety, your cunning? Perhaps you’ve only gotten this far by relying on your family’s reputation, which is…shameful, don’t you think?”

As ever, Salazar is a marvel to watch when he’s cutting others down to size. Godric chuckles to himself as the boy goes ever redder, hands clenching into fists, and the sound draws the blond’s sneer right to him.

“And you?” the boy snaps. “What are you, then? A Ravenclaw?”

Godric laughs out loud at the very thought, crossing his arms behind his head and giving the trio a grin that is more teeth than humor. “Me?” he asks lightly. “Oh, no. I'm a Gryffindor to the core, and I’d be more than happy to wedge my boot up your arse without a lick of subtlety—provided I can find space for it alongside the stick that’s already there, of course.”

There's a round of muffled snickers from within the compartment, and then a girl with bushy brown hair appears in the doorway, looking fierce. “Get out, Malfoy,” she says sharply, and the blond boy casts her a furious look and whirls, sweeping away with his two cronies behind him.

All three of them, Godric notices with amusement, give him a fairly wide berth as they pass.

“Thank you,” the bushy-haired girl says politely. “You didn’t need to step in.”

Salazar and Godric share an amused look, and then Salazar says blandly, “As I told him, the sight of a Slytherin so shaming his House was enough motivation. It’s truly a disgrace, how the standards among purebloods are dropping. A side effect of too much inbreeding, I assume.” He narrows his eyes at Godric as the redhead opens his mouth. “And don’t you dare say anything, Gideon.”

Godric grins at him. “But _Roberta and I told you so_ has such a lovely ring to it, don’t you think?” he prods, a little gleefully. Chances to say that are so very rare, after all.

Clearly, Salazar is not amused, if his glare is anything to go by. With a huff, he glances at the girl again and inclines his head. “I'm glad we were able to be of assistance.”

She smiles back, warm and friendly. Another Gryffindor, unless Godric misses his guess. “I'm Hermione Granger. Are you seventh years?”

“Fifth,” Godric corrects, and then, when she looks confused, adds, “We’re only just starting Hogwarts this year, though. Our parents travel, so they kept us out until now.” Which brings up the distinct lack of knowledge he has regarding Rowena’s backstory for them—he doesn’t even know what kind of scholars their parents are supposed to be, which might make conversation…difficult. “I'm Gideon Griffiths.”

“Solomon Silvius,” Salazar adds, and anyone who doesn’t know him would miss the faint wrinkling of his nose at the false name. For the most part, Salazar simply prefers not to give one whenever possible, because he’s still exceedingly proud of his bloodline, which can be traced back to Merlin himself. Rowena is like a force of nature, though; no one says no to her. Ever.

“Pleased to meet you,” Granger returns politely. “Are you looking for a compartment?” She steps back, glancing around the one she just emerged from. “Er…if we squish…”

Godric leans forward to peer past her, and gives the occupants a cheerful wave. “Morning!” he offers, and then answers Granger. “No, we’ve got one, but we’ve been temporarily banished while the girls talk.”

The redheaded girl he glimpsed before is looking at him with raised brows, seated next to the dark-haired, green-eyed boy, who’s watching Godric warily, though that wariness quickly transfers to Salazar when the Slytherin comes up behind him to offer his own nod of greeting. A redheaded boy, tall and gangly, is regarding them even more suspiciously.

“How do you know what your Houses are going to be already?” the redheaded girl asks, gaze flickering between them.

Another shared glance with Salazar, once more full of silent amusement, and Godric offers them an easy grin. “Ah, I think we’ve got it figured out. Could be wrong, though.”

“Would you like to sit with us for a bit?” Granger asks, determinedly polite as she shoos the redheaded boy closer to the dark-haired one. “It might be more convenient than wandering around the train.”

Godric glances back at Salazar with a questioning lift of one brow. Salazar returns the look with a faint roll of his eyes and a brief nod, and Godric ducks forward with a grin. “No need to move,” he says cheerfully, taking a seat under the window and crossing his legs. “Sal, come on, it won't hurt your dignity that much to sit on the floor.”

That gets him an arch look from Salazar, who delicately takes a seat beside a round-faced boy who glances at him nervously. “Forgive me, Gideon, but I’d rather not risk catching whatever it is that’s clearly infected you,” he retorts.

Clapping a hand to his chest, Godric gives his friend his best wounded look. “Solomon! I'm practically perfect in every way, don’t you remember?” When Salazar continues to look unimpressed, Godric crosses his arms and scowls. “And I’ll have you know that the only thing infecting me is a _sense of fun_. You wouldn’t be so lucky as to catch it from me.”

“Indeed,” Salazar drawls, then pointedly looks around the compartment. “I take it you heard our introductions? Or should we do them again?”

The red-haired girl grins. “No need,” she answers. “I'm Ginny Weasley. This is my brother, Ron, and Neville Longbottom.”

“Luna Lovegood,” the blonde says warmly, pale blue eyes flickering over them as she lowers her magazine.

“And I'm Harry Potter,” the last boy says quietly.

Godric knows the name, of course—he does pay attention to current politics, no matter what Rowena and Salazar might try to imply. So he gives the boy a glance and a smile, a tip of his head, but then he moves on, because honestly, Dark Lords are a dime a dozen in their world, and while Voldemort’s defeat is admirable, it’s only noteworthy as far as Potter’s age at the time goes. And his persistence in keeping the madman gone.

He’s a worthy addition to Godric’s House, and that’s enough to know.


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is snark, poetry, nicknames, and friends in need of comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I put it in the tags, but I’ll say it again here: Godric is an unreliable narrator. Just because he thinks something doesn’t mean it’s true. He’s not good with subterfuge, or picking out motives, and he definitely has flaws (dismissing Harry plays into that). He won't be the only narrator, because I get impatient writing (or reading) from a single POV, but the others won't come in until later. 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! I know this is a bit crackish, but hopefully it’s as much fun to read as it is to write. :)

 “So, let me guess,” Godric says with a grin, glancing around the compartment and tapping his chin thoughtfully. The atmosphere’s gotten a bit heavy, after all, and Godric’s never been able to let that stand for long. “Gryffindors, the lot of you. Except…” A pause, and the round-faced boy—Longbottom—is giving him a wary look, though Godric can't imagine why. Another moment, and Godric rises to his feet, reaching over and plucking the blonde’s hand from where it rests in her lap. She watches him with a sort of easy curiosity as he lifts it to his lips and lays a courtly kiss on the back. “All but for you, milady,” he finishes with a wink and a smile. “A Ravenclaw you are, through and through.”

That gets him a delighted smile, bright and beautiful. “I am,” she agrees. “How did you guess?”

“ _Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure,_ ” Godric quotes, because it’s Rowena’s favorite saying, and he’ll always be able to pick out one of her students. Especially the ones like this girl, who are just a little bit strange, but so at ease with themselves. Who aren’t the learners and the writers but the thinkers and the dreamers. They're just as much Ravenclaws as any other, if somewhat rarer than the rest.

Luna stares at him for a moment, and then her smile widens and she laughs. “ _Yet each man kills the thing he loves, by each let this be heard: some do it with a bitter look, some with a flattering word; the coward does it with a kiss, the brave man with a sword_.”

Godric’s breath catches painfully in his throat, but he manages to smile through it, though he’s sure it’s more wry than amused. Because that’s always been him, hasn’t it? He’s killed what he’s loved time and again, buried his heart and shut it away, slain it with a sword and a steady hand because that’s the best thing he can do, because that’s what's right. Because Godric is always willing to bear pain, to face it down, to move beyond it if that’s what becomes necessary.

Fifty years ago, when Salazar’s eyes moved past him rather than looking at him, Godric stepped back and let him go. Always, always, he’s let Salazar go, never knowing that he’ll return, and for that alone Godric would term himself brave, if asked.

Not all deaths are literal. Sometimes they hurt all the more when they aren’t.

“You're a clever one, aren’t you?” he says once he’s sure his voice won't crack, but there's only admiration in it. Godric knows himself, knows that he’s never been able to see past the present, or even the obvious—subterfuge and subtlety are wasted on him. He’s the brave one, the bold one, rushing in headlong where others take the time to look and think. And sometimes it doesn’t work out, but…sometimes it does.

There's something to be said for a full frontal assault against suicidal odds. At the very least, it’s never boring.

Luna just smiles at him, small and secretive, as though she knows quite a lot but isn’t going to speak a word of it. That’s Rowena’s expression, most definitely, and another mark of a born Ravenclaw. Godric smiles back at her, though it’s not nearly so enigmatic, and releases her hand to sink back to the floor.

When he looks up, everyone else is staring at him. Salazar is the one he looks to, as always, Salazar with his pale grey eyes like gathering storm-clouds in the dawn, his hair a spill of ink down his back. Salazar who’s always been the one he looked to, first and foremost, no matter the situation.

Fifty years is a long time, but it’s not nearly long enough to forget a millennia of ingrained habits.

The other man is watching him, leaning back in his seat with his arms folded over his chest, an unreadable expression on his handsome face. But his eyes are on Godric, intent and sharp, faintly narrowed, and as Godric holds his stare he shifts faintly, long fingers tapping against his elbow. He takes a breath, as though preparing to speak, but before he can Ginny asks interestedly, “Are you sure you aren’t going to be in Ravenclaw, then?”

Godric blinks, attention diverted, and glances over at her. She looks thoughtful, gaze sliding from him to Luna and then back again, and he would be amused if it weren’t so ridiculous a notion. It’s entirely normal to have students with traits from multiple Houses—they're all human, after all, and the Sorting Hat picks those qualities that are foremost in a person’s makeup. Even things that come close second _stay_ secondary. It’s not the best system, perhaps, but it’s good enough—or it was, before the House rivalries reached the levels they're at now.

But for all of that, Rowena, Salazar, Helga, and he all embody their Houses to a degree no other person can match. Whatever traits he may share with the others they're deeply buried, and so minor a part of his personality as to matter nothing at all in the grand scheme of things. Certainly, Salazar is brave and Helga is wise, Rowena is loyal and Godric cunning, but the bulk of who they are is what they left to their Houses.

“No,” Salazar says before Godric can gather his wits about himself and answer. When he glances back at the Slytherin, Salazar is watching him with an amused slant to his lips, and a light in his eyes that is deeply buried amusement. “No, I think you’ve nothing to worry about. Gideon is a Gryffindor, of that I have no doubt.”

That gets him narrow, wary looks from three directions; apparently the two Weasleys and Potter can't quite tell if that was an insult. After a moment of glances being traded, the Weasley boy ventures, “If he’s a Gryffindor and you're going to be a Slytherin, how come you're so chummy, then?”

This time, Godric cuts in before Salazar can make the situation worse. Salazar has never liked people implying that he and Godric are anything less than the best of friends, even when they're at each other’s throats. Solidarity or something like it, Godric thinks, though he’s never asked. Perhaps possessiveness, given that for many, many years he and Godric were each other’s only lifelines in a hostile world. It was hard for him to accept even the girls, at first, though Helga quickly cured him of that once she realized the problem.

So, as soon as he catches sight of Salazar’s eyes narrowing, Godric laughs and offers, “What? You’ve never seen a lion and a snake be friends? But it’s the perfect match, don’t you think? The brave and bold to stand in front and turn the world’s frontal threats aside, and the cunning and ambitious to watch his back and push him forward when need be.”

“Provided you don’t mind turning your back on the snake to begin with,” Ginny points out, studying Godric a little more closely. She’s one to watch, he thinks with a faint smile to himself. The lionesses are always the more dangerous of the pride, aren’t they?

Godric just shrugs, keeping his easy smile. “Well, that’s where the bravery comes in, isn’t it? All friendships are a risk, but the harder it is to win them, the stronger they are, I've found.”

Potter glances at Granger, and she looks back at him, and there's a whole conversation about the past in that one little exchange. Her face is tight with worry and affection and a silent plea, and his is tired and pained but grateful, and they both smile slightly. Ron is watching them, too, and his smile is bordering on a grin. “Knocking out a mountain troll?” he asks, and the other two laugh a little. The air in the compartment relaxes completely, even though Godric hadn’t noticed the tension previously, and Ginny and Longbottom exchange relieved glances.

“Harry, being prefect—” Granger starts, tone worried.

Potter waves a hand and cuts her off. Not unkindly, he says, “Forget about it, Hermione, I'm just being a prat. It’s been a stressful summer, yeah?”

The Weasley boy looks more than happy to let the subject drop, whatever it is, and chimes in, “Understandable, mate. If we could have…” He grimaces, but leaves the rest unsaid.

The other boy seems to understand regardless, because he just smiles and nods. Before he can add anything, though, there's a soft knock on the compartment door, and it slides open to reveal a sweet face topped with a riot of golden curls. Helga leans in, relief filling her expression as her eyes alight on Godric, and she smiles. It’s startlingly watery, though, edged with something very like tears.

“Oh, there you are, Gideon,” she says, and there's a tremble in her voice as well. “Would you—do you have a second?”

Godric is on his feet before he can remember moving, already crossing to the door. “Of course, Heidi,” he says, reaching out to wrap an arm around her shoulders. Apparently, her talk with Rowena didn’t end well. “Come on, bright eyes, let’s take a walk. There might be an empty compartment around here somewhere.”

“Gideon.” Salazar’s voice is faintly sharp as he rises.

But Godric can't look at him right now. Not when the sight of Helga so unhappy tells him that he wasn’t the only one to hate their separation. Not when she’s hurting, and it’s the same hurt that runs through his chest each time he meets a sharp grey gaze. Not when he waited fifty years for that voice to call him back only to be eternally disappointed.

“Later, Sal,” he says, meeting Helga’s pained brown eyes in silent understanding. “We’ll see you in a bit.” Better to present a united front and all that, and from the relief Helga just manages to hide, she’s feeling the same. “If you want to head back, I'm sure Roberta could use some company.”

Godric doesn’t look back as he tugs Helga out into the corridor, because he knows Salazar. He knows the anger that will be painted on the other man’s face, the irritation and offense apparent in equal measure, and he doesn’t want to see it right now. Because he’s _angry_ and he’s _hurt_ and he’s not the only one. Helga is, too, and that’s enough to make him feel at least a little justified indulging his feelings right now.

Maybe it makes him a hypocrite, to speak of friendships made stronger by adversity and then immediately rush to the side of another friend, but he _doesn’t care_. An entirely childish part of him insists that Salazar was the one who abandoned him first, and just for now, Godric is willing to listen to it.

“Thank you, Godric,” Helga whispers as the compartment door slides shut behind them. She tucks her arm through his and leans into his side as they head towards the end of the train, and Godric presses back, trying to offer at least a little bit of comfort.

“Of course, Helga,” Godric answers, pressing a kiss to her curls. He remembers fifty years ago, Salazar’s coolly disinterested face, remembers a dispassionate and nearly offhand, _“We’re parting ways here,”_ as Rowena nodded her agreement. Remembers meeting Helga’s eyes across the room with a sinking feeling in his chest that said this was the moment where everything changed. Remembers protests, and angry words, and Salazar and Rowena both immovable. Both calm and collected, and somehow that made everything a thousand times worse.

The very last compartment on the train is empty, the glass of the window cracked just enough to let in a continuous stream of freezing air. Godric draws his wand and flicks it carelessly, repairing the pane, as Helga casts a heating charm that instantly leaves the room feeling balmy. Once that’s done, though, she hesitates, clearly uncertain, and Godric mentally curses the other two for all of this. And himself, as well, because when they’d first separated he’d wanted nothing more than to find a dark hole in which to nurse his wounds, emotional though they were. After that, though—surely he could have gone looking, could have found Helga if he’d tried. But he hadn’t, and right now, that feels like a betrayal just as great as Rowena and Salazar’s.

“One moment,” he says gently, and conjures a pile of thick quilts and fluffy pillows on the floor. Flopping down with deliberate gracelessness, he looks up at his friend and tries for his best charming smile, patting the blankets beside him. “All right, come on and tell your best friend all about it. I promise, whatever Rowena said to upset you, it won't hurt nearly as much when I'm finished charming her hair pink and her socks all orange.”

Helga laughs, and if it’s a bit watery Godric can overlook that. She lets herself drop, clearly uncaring of propriety or her clothes getting mussed, and pulls her knees up to rest her chin on them. Godric shifts a bit closer, tucking their shoulders together, and waits as patiently as he’s able for her to start.

Taking a shuddering breath, Helga wipes her eyes and says resolutely, “It’s stupid. It’s all just—just so stupid, Godric! She doesn’t understand why I'm…”

“Angry,” Godric supplies softly, because he feels the same way, and he’s very much aware that Salazar, who keeps a firm distance from anything emotional when given the chance, will never comprehend the entirety of what he’s feeling at the moment. “Angry that they could do that, when everything seemed fine. Angry at yourself, because you let it hurt. Angry at them, because they only seem vaguely aware of that fact that it’s been fifty years. Angry that they feel it, but nowhere near as much as you do.”

“When I got Rowena’s message, I was so _happy_ ,” Helga confides miserably. “I was in France, and I got here as fast as I could, but…no one else was here. No one was waiting. And that hurt all over again. I didn’t see Rowena until she walked up behind you on the platform, and then… They missed us too, I know that, but it’s just…”

“Not fair that we’re the emotional wrecks and they're just the same as ever,” Godric finishes. He sighs and scrubs a hand over his newly shortened hair, then smiles wryly. “I understand, bright eyes. I'm in the same boat. Salazar never even so much as hinted at it, and then it was just…sudden.”

Helga nods in silent agreement, resting her head on his shoulder, and then says in a voice that’s determinedly cheerful, “We’re going back to Hogwarts, though. Isn’t that exciting? It’s been so long.”

“I just wish we weren’t going back as _student_ ,” Godric mutters, rolling his eyes even as Helga giggles at him. “Oh, you laugh now, but just wait! This will end in disaster and tears, I can already tell. Can you imagine someone trying to _teach_ _Rowena_? Or coach Salazar in Transfiguration. Or _you_ in Charms.”

“Or you in Defense, fire-top,” Helga reminds him fondly, and she’s grinning, this time without reservation. It cheers Godric unspeakably to see it, and he squeezes her gently in relief. She shakes her head at him, as if she knows what he’s thinking.

Godric chuckles, rubbing at his hair again. “No one’s called me that in a long time,” he says, and can't quite hide the note of wistfulness that creeps into his voice. A breath, and then—because bravery comes in many forms, and one of the greatest is being able to admit one’s own wrongdoing—he adds softly, “I'm sorry, Helga. I should have looked for you, after we parted. Neither of us wanted to be alone, and I should have—”

Helga presses a finger over his lips to halt the words, and her expression is gentle but her brown eyes are stern. “Hush,” she chides. “I could just have easily have sought you out, Godric, but I didn’t either. It just—wasn’t what either of us needed, then. But we’re here now, and that’s enough, isn’t it?”

Godric smiles at her, leaning in to kiss her forehead. “Of course,” he agrees, and Helga smiles back and scuffs a hand over his hair.

“You look good like this,” she offers after a moment, studying him with a spark of mischief in her gaze. “Short hair suits you. I think this whole time suits you, Godric.”

“And you,” Godric counters, because it does. Rowena has always been the prefect lady in bearing and manners, but Helga never was. A bit too carefree, a bit too silly, with a love of crafting and cooking and getting her hands dirty that has never suited someone of her status. Much like Godric himself, who has always been a rough-and-tumble warrior, whether on a battlefield or in a seedy tavern. He’s more at home with mud on his boots and a shovel in hand, helping Helga plant a garden, than he ever has been in a ballroom or a court. Such things as birth don’t matter nearly as much anymore, and Godric glories in it, that few care. That he can scrub a floor without someone batting an eye, or wrestle with a griffin, or share a pint with a gaggle of dragon keepers after a day’s work without a disapproving glare at his back is truly wonderful.

Salazar and Rowena are the noble, beautiful, learned ones among them, who all but bleed sophistication and breeding, but Godric and Helga are different, and always have been.

Helga smiles warmly, tugging at a lock of his hair again. “It does,” she agrees without hesitation. “Wizards have always been a bit more open-minded about women holding the same power, but it’s nice to be able to go into the Muggle world and not have people turn their noses up at me when I want to learn to fix a car.”

And that, Godric is sure, is the very first thing Helga did when cars became common enough to require it. She’s fond of Muggles and their technology, far more than one would expect for a pureblood witch, and she’s never hidden it. She also has a penchant for repairing things with her own hands whenever possible. More satisfying that way, she says.

“My pretty little grease monkey,” he teases with a laugh. “Did you show the rest of the boys how it’s done?”

As usual, Helga grins right along with him. It’s one of the things he loves about her, that ability to so easily laugh at herself. “Of course,” she says primly, straightening her skirt. “They were surprisingly easygoing about it, too. Not what I was expecting at all.”

Smiling down at her, Godric just shakes his head, because he isn’t surprised. Helga is sweet-tempered and good-natured and always hardworking. He’s willing to bet whatever mechanics were doing the teaching fell just a little bit in love the moment they met her. Everyone does, after all. Godric himself is no exception, though he knows his love to be a good bit more familial that what most feel for the lovely, charming Hufflepuff.

“Do you think the animals in the Forest are doing well?” Helga asks wistfully after a moment, resettling herself against Godric’s side. “The herd of unicorns there was so lovely, and they were so fond of you, Godric! I've never see them take to a wizard quite that well before.”

“Especially one so emphatically not a virgin,” Godric adds, waggling his eyebrows exaggeratedly, and Helga rolls her eyes and boxes his ears. He yelps, trying halfheartedly to get away from her and protesting, “Ow! Helga!”

“You!” Helga exclaims, but she’s just barely able to hide her laughter behind one hand. “You're such an unrepentant _cad_! But don’t forget I know just how many people you’ve been in love with, Godric Gryffindor, and I can count them on one hand with fingers left to spare!”

“To borrow a phrase from that one song, what’s love got to do with it?” Godric asks with faux virtue, placing a hand over his heart and giving Helga his best innocently questioning expression. She bats at him again, laughing too hard to speak, and Godric grins right along with her, relaxing back against the wall of the compartment.

“I'm sure the unicorns are doing just fine,” he says when she’s mostly recovered herself again. “It’s the griffins and kelpies I'm more interested in—they're both a little more wary of people, and given the size of the school now…I hope they haven’t all vanished.”

“And Gwenhwyfar?” Helga asks cheekily.

Godric hisses at her, automatically throwing a wary glance at the compartment door, because knowing his luck this is exactly the moment when Rowena or Salazar will find them. “Helga! I swore you to secrecy on that!”

Helga gives him an arch look. “Godric, the door is closed,” she reminds him pointedly. “We’re staring right at it. And Gwenhwyfar has been settled for more than two hundred years already. Salazar is hardly going to force you to uproot her and ship her back.”

With a faint roll of his eyes, Godric gives in to her undeniable logic. “Oh, I suppose. But he’d have had no compunctions telling me to get rid of her when I first pulled her out of the ocean. He’s…never had much patience for nursing creatures back to health.”

Maybe some would call that cruelty, but Godric knows it’s just Salazar’s practicality. He’s a pragmatic man, a product of the times—it’s where his hatred of Muggles and dislike of Muggleborns came from, when they first established the school. Thousands dead at the hands of witch-hunters, not just the witches and wizards themselves but entire families. And the Muggles had numbers, while wizards and witches were few and widespread. Had word gotten round, even vague whispers of a school starting, soldiers would have come by the thousands, and Salazar always thought it was a foolish risk. Better to let those with ties to the mundane world slip through their fingers than it was to bring them into the fold and risk several hundred children all at once.

Helga makes a faint noise of amusement. “Well, to be fair, not many people would have let you keep a _dragon_ that you pulled out of the sea, Godric, no matter how close to dead she was when you found her.”

“An Antipodean Opaleye,” Godric murmurs with a reverent smile, remembering. “I can't imagine what she must have gone through to wash up off our coast. After she suffered so much, what was I to do but bring her back with me? I could hardly just leave her there to die.”

“Of course you couldn’t,” Helga answers fondly, reaching up to pat him on the head. Godric endures it, though he gives her a dirty look. She smothers a giggle, but adds with a hint of worry, “You can't be disappointed if she’s gone, Godric. She must be an old dragon already, and she might have decided to fly home long ago. You realize that, don’t you?”

Godric is not, despite popular belief, either an idiot or a child. He’s well aware that Gwenhwyfar could have returned to the rest of her kind in New Zealand—it’s not just possible, it’s likely. But Helga means well, so he just smiles reassuringly and opens his mouth. That’s the very moment the door of the compartment slides open to reveal Salazar looming at the threshold.

Godric snaps his mouth closed and blesses his lucky stars that the other man didn’t appear even a few seconds earlier.

Because Salazar isn’t a fool, and he’s also well-acquainted with Godric’s various behaviors, he gives him a quick, narrow-eyed and suspicious look, which Godric answers with his most innocent expression. Another moment of staring, and then Salazar clearly gives up, huffing out a resigned sigh and drawling, “If you're quite done, Rowena wants to speak to us.”

It takes effort not to bristle. Godric bites back on the instinctive surge of temper and grits his teeth, reminding himself that Salazar likely doesn’t _mean_ to sound condescending and rude, it’s just…a slip of the tongue. A careless phrase.

Except that Salazar is _never_ careless with his phrasing. He’s a master with words, both magical and otherwise, and likely knows just what kind of reaction that particular sentence would get.

Helga makes a soft sound in the back of her throat, soft enough that Godric, seated right next to her, barely manages to catch it. It’s short and frustrated and all but vibrating with exasperation and offense and indignation, but when she rises to her feet and straightens her skirt, there's no trace of any of those emotions on her face. Watching her do that is always astonishing—though perhaps Godric shouldn’t be surprised, because part of loyalty is standing beside your friends no matter what, no matter what doubts you may personally hide. Helga’s always been good at that part.

“I think we can tear ourselves away,” she agrees evenly, though Salazar knows her well enough that he casts her a wary glance regardless. “Godric?”

Godric takes the hand she offers him and rises to his feet, then turns and flicks a dismissive hand at the blankets and cushions they’d been sitting on to vanish them.

“Merlin,” Salazar mutters, sounding fully exasperated. Half an instant later, he’s right in front of Godric, one hand inside Godric’s robes. Godric yelps and starts to squirm away, but before he can an elegant hand closes around the back of his neck to hold him in place. Salazar gives him a narrow-eyed look, then steps back, seizes Godric’s hand, and slaps his wand into it. “Here. _Use it_. We are students, Godric, not full wizards, and if you reveal us with little bits of carelessness like that, I won't be held responsible for whatever Rowena will do to you.”

It takes a truly immense amount of effort not to sweep Salazar’s legs out from under him and go for the knife in his own boot, because that’s what Godric _does_ when people grab him unexpectedly. He was—is—a soldier, a fighter, no matter how long he’s had to acquaint himself with peace. Salazar was born to a noble family famous for their charmed talismans and potions, but Godric was a mercenary brat whose family was elevated to a barony for services to the crown. He grew up fighting, learning to swing a sword and throw a curse and turn it into a way of life, and it was only at the age of thirteen that he’d met Salazar, perfect and proper and cultured, with a formidable mind but no talent for swordplay and a baffling aversion to physical exertion.

It’s amusing, to hear Salazar speak of carelessness when he doesn’t realize what his own carelessness nearly wrought. When he doesn’t realize just how simple it would have been for Godric to have him on the ground, blade at his throat and wand against his heart, the moment he’d grabbed his robes. Godric is not a _child_ , for all that he’s the youngest of the Founders by several years, and even if this is how they’ve always treated him—with a sort of exasperated tolerance, a bemused fondness that Godric previously enjoyed—it’s wearing at him right now. Too many years apart, perhaps, or not enough time together, and Godric is well aware that he’s adding to the tension, but he just can't _stop_. He’s resentful and angry and hurt and a little bewildered, and has never dealt with such things well.

Usually, the four of them balance each other. Usually, the other three hold his more unsavory habits and facets in check, as he does for them, and it’s enough. But right now all he wants is a few hours surrounded by his Gryffindors, by people who are loud and unrepentant about it, who joke and jockey and wrestle, play pranks and argue and come back together regardless.

And he can't have that. He won't be able to until late tonight, after the Sorting, and even though it’s closer than it’s ever been, Godric is impatient and doesn’t _want_ to wait. Nor does he want to deal with Rowena’s superiority and planning and Salazar’s condescension and plotting.

Taking a slow, careful breath, Godric loosens the death grip he has on his wand and slips it into the holster up his sleeve, rather than back into the interior pocket he’d been keeping it in. Anything to make this go faster, even if it means appeasing Salazar.

Helga is watching him, when he looks up, and there's a thoughtful sort of concern in her eyes. Godric offers her a smile, though it’s far fainter than his usual, and doesn’t bother looking back at either of them as he ducks out into the hall. He almost runs into a pair of redheaded twins and a black boy with dreadlocks, but manages to sidestep and give them a swift, apologetic grin as he slips past. Gryffindors, according to their ties, and the pang of what is nearly homesickness in his chest takes him by surprise.

Maybe Rowena had the right idea, having them return as students.

Not that he’s ever going to _tell_ her that, he thinks a little wryly, when he makes his way into their compartment. She’s wearing that arch look she sometimes gets, just hiding the miffed sort of unhappiness beneath the surface. Anything he says to her right now is going to be thrown back in his face in the harshest way possible, and in his current state of temper Godric will likely snap back. Their fights are always explosive, bloody, and accompanied by quite a lot of collateral damage, so given that they're going to be confined to a relatively small train for the next six hours, it’s probably best to avoid riling her further. Godric simply nods once and takes a seat by the window, waiting for Helga and Salazar to catch up.

Thankfully, the other two aren’t far behind him. Within seconds Helga is sliding into the compartment. She casts a quick, almost furtive glance at Rowena, then carefully takes the seat across from Godric with a slightly weak smile. Salazar, thin-lipped and stiff in a way that speaks of frustration more than anything, settles beside him, and arches one brow at Rowena.

“Well?” he asks coolly.

Rowena narrows her eyes at him, one pale, delicate hand curling into a fist, and then takes a breath. As she lets it out, all of the emotion on her face slides away, hidden behind a cool sort of amused distance. “Well,” she agrees politely, and turns her gaze to Helga and then Godric. “I wanted to make sure you all knew the stories I’d crafted before someone was forced to…embellish and blow our cover. I enrolled us a month ago, under the guise of one Mrs. Roanoke, and the Headmaster seemed quite accepting of our background. Our ‘parents’ are scholars studying Hogwarts and the Founders, which should neatly explain most of our knowledge regarding the castle and grounds.”

It takes effort for Godric not to pull a face. He _hates_ false backstories and convoluted plots and playing at being something he’s not, and this is…very much all of the above. “And the _real_ reason we’re going back?” he asks, leaning back against the edge of the window and folding his arms over his chest. “You’ve yet to mention that, Rowena. Did you hear something? Find something?”

Rowena pauses, hesitates. That alone is enough to make Godric sit up a little straighter, ever instinct suddenly on alert, and she gives him a faint apologetic smile before explaining, “I kept to England, mostly, in our time apart. The last few years I worked at the Ministry, and the situation there is…intolerable. The Minister is a bumbling fool, corruption is rife, and there are Dark wizards in the very highest offices.”

“That is all well and good,” Salazar cuts in sharply, “but we agreed long ago that we would not interfere with the workings of the government, Rowena. I do not see—”

“Last year’s Defense Against the Dark Arts professor quit,” Rowena interrupts, folding her hands in her lap. “And the one before that. And the one before that. Fifty years, and never has a Defense professor lasted more than a single term. Many have met truly awful ends. Others have _been_ awful. The one from last year was a Death Eater impersonating the man who had been hired to teach. And this year, Minister Fudge has finally managed to wriggle his way around the Board and the Headmaster both, and install one of his lackeys in the position.” She looks between the three of them, blue eyes dark with something very like fury. Godric is aware that the rest of them probably aren’t much better. He’s scowling, and even Helga looks grim.

When Rowena continues, her tone is much softer, but carries easily over the noise of the train. “I am aware that we agreed not to interfere, Salazar, but we also created agreements to place Hogwarts outside the jurisdiction of any government. Our school is our own, and I won't let some toadying, bumbling _wretch_ with a political agenda undo centuries of work. Between Fudge’s lackey and the rumors of Voldemort’s return, I believe this is as good a time to return as any.”

“And well overdue,” Godric agrees, breathing out through his nose and attempting to unclench his fists. They’ve had problems like this before, whatever government exists—be it king, queen, or elected official—trying to twist Hogwarts to suit themselves, trying to see taught only what they want, or what supports their agenda. Godric _hates_ it, because the school is separate, hidden away just for that reason. It is a place for everyone to go and learn, regardless of the political climate, and to stay safe.

Which brings up another point. “You said that last year’s teacher was one of this new Dark Lord’s servants,” he says, glancing at Rowena.

She nods, mouth pulling into a faint half-grimace. “Yes,” she affirms. “Four years ago was another of his servants. And three years ago, someone released the basilisk and turned it against students who were not of pure blood. It is…enough to make me think that the rumors of his return are not as unfounded as I would like. Or at the very least, they are only slightly exaggerated.”

Salazar makes a low, angry noise in his throat, shifting like he’s about to throw himself from his seat and pace. Knowing that in this small space it will only frustrate him more, Godric catches him by the arm and pulls him back down as he starts to rise. The other man hardly seems to notice. “The basilisk?” he repeats, his eyes the same dark grey as a brewing storm. “We placed her there as a _defense_ , how could someone—”

“Voldemort claims to be your heir,” Helga says softly, her face tight with a grim sort of unhappiness. “He’s a Parselmouth, too, which many see as supporting his claim.”

With a disgusted huff, Salazar crosses his arms over his chest. “I am hardly the only Parselmouth to exist. It is a dying skill, admittedly, but I can think of ten wizards and witches from the last century off the top of my head, all of whom it is far more likely this upstart is related to. Especially given that I _have_ no children.”

“They also say you're a cold, Muggle-hating bastard who despises anyone with less than pure blood,” Godric points out with faint amusement. “Oh, wait—”

Salazar slaps him in the back of the head, a truly impressive scowl on his face. “Were that the case,” he retorts, “I never would have so much as spoken to you, fool.”

“I didn’t exactly give you a _choice_ ,” Godric reminds him, grinning. “I just felt so sorry for you after watching you trip over your own feet and nearly gut yourself on a practice sword, I had to say something.”

“And does it count as impure blood, when his mother was a half-blood?” Helga wonders, tilting her head thoughtfully. “After all, that means both of his parents were magical.”

Rowena clears her throat pointedly, though she’s hiding a smile. “Enough, the three of you,” she says amusedly. “We’re going to Hogwarts to limit the influence of this Ministry official, to remove any of Voldemort’s influences, and to break the supposed curse on the Defense position.”

“Curse?” Salazar asks, suddenly interested again.

Eyeing him with a mixture of fondness and forbearance, Rowena inclines her head. “According to rumor,” she affirms, “the position is cursed, which would be the reason no one has lasted more than a year. I find it likely, given the turnover rate, and such things are often all but impossible to find. However, with our connection to Hogwarts, we have the advantage. Any more questions?”

“This Voldemort,” Godric ventures, because he’s always been the one to think of offense and attacks before any of the others. “Is he a threat to the school?” It’s with a faint twist of his gut that he remembers Harry Potter, remembers the darkness in his eyes and Godric’s own dismissal of him. Perhaps he came to a decision too quickly, if Voldemort has so firmly entrenched himself in the Ministry, and has even managed to slip his followers into Hogwarts beneath the Headmaster’s nose.

“He could be, I'm sure,” Rowena says bluntly. “Headmaster Dumbledore is the only man who ever drove him from the field, the first time he rose, and the boy who defeated him is currently a fifth year. That is two draws at the very least, and I have no doubt that he will want to deal with both of them at some point. However, I don’t think we should go hunting for him until we have a better idea of what his motivations and powers are.”

With a displeased huff, Godric subsides. He enjoys fighting, more than any of the others have ever been entirely comfortable with. To have a target, to _know_ that this Dark Lord is a threat to Hogwarts, and to then have Rowena yank him back as though he is a wolfhound on a leash is…disheartening.

“Well,” Rowena says firmly, giving him a stern look before turning to the others and clapping her hands. “Headmaster Dumbledore was _most_ concerned that we were coming into the school in the same year as the OWLs, and I assured him that we would be fully capable of passing at the top of the class. Does anyone care to brush up on the texts so they're not making a liar out of me?”

Despite the phrasing, it’s very much not a question.

With a groan, Godric reaches for his shrunken trunk, bracing himself for a very boring remainder of the trip.


	3. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is bickering, friendship, twins, toads, and conversations with a Hat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very, very much trying not to rehash canon, while still having the Founders’ story intersect with Harry's often enough to keep it interesting. Hopefully I've done a decent job? If it’s boring, don’t hesitate to yell at me, and I’ll attempt to switch things up. 
> 
> (Also, I am a twin, and my brother and I are both of the firm opinion that there is not nearly enough twin awesomeness in the world, so to combat this, the Weasley twins are going to feature heavily. I'm really, really not sorry.)

“Why does school have to start in September?” Godric mutters, tugging the collar of his robes up a little higher around his neck. He hunkers down, scowling ineffectually at the sky, and tries to avoid as many of the stinging raindrops as he can. “And if there’s no way to change that, why the hell did we build a school in _Scotland_?”

“Because the world wants to see you suffer, Gideon,” Rowena answers without pity. “And mind your tongue. There is nothing wrong with Scotland.”

“ _There is nothing wrong with_ —are you mad? Have you spent so long in London that you’ve forgotten what winter is?”

The unimpressed look he gets in response is magnificent—or would be, were it directed at someone other than him. Rowena opens her mouth to respond, no doubt cuttingly, but before she can get more than the first syllable out something else far more interesting catches Godric’s eye. Leathery black bat wings, fanning wide and then folding down again, skeletal black bodies and vivid white eyes stark in the gloom.

“Oh!” Godric says excitedly, stopping in the middle of the path. “The thestrals! Look, Hel—Heidi, aren’t they looking well? How much do you reckon the herd has grown?”

Helga giggles, even as a hand clamps down around his bicep, red-painted nails like a dragon’s talons. “No,” Rowena says flatly. “Gideon, _no_.”

“Sorry, Gideon,” Helga agrees, taking his other arm and helping Rowena steer him through the station. “If we stop now we’ll never make it to the feast on time.”

“You mean if _he_ stops now,” Salazar puts in dryly, because he’s a bastard with no appreciation for the beautiful creatures of the wizarding world. Godric shoots him a betrayed look anyway, because that’s how interactions go between them, but Salazar just smirks back and prods him in the spine to keep him moving.

“It’s not like you can _stop_ me from looking at them,” Godric complains. “We’re going to be riding in the—” And then he realizes just where the girls are leading him. “Oh, no.”

As if to spite him, a brisk voice calls, “First years over here, please! All first years and new students to me!”

Godric makes a vain attempt to plant his heels. “No, Roberta, you are not making us cross the lake in one of those rickety little rowboats, in the rain, in September. No. You can't make me.”

Rowena gives him her most archly superior look, edged with a nearly sinister smile. “Oh, Gideon, I most certainly can. You are going to walk with us and get in one of those boats, or I will hex you silly and drag you across the lake with a towline. I'm sure the giant squid would be more than happy to push.”

“Before you open your mouth again, Gideon, might I remind you of the last time you challenged her?” Salazar puts in silkily, and the finger prodding him forward has become a hand on his spine, long-fingered and almost shockingly warm where the fingertips press against the bare skin of his nape. “Venice, 1802, and resulting in—”

“Yes, yes!” Godric interrupts hurriedly, allowing himself to be urged on, if only to escape this conversation. “I understand. Baiting Roberta, bad. Going along with her threats, good.”

Salazar hums thoughtfully. “Well, not if you're a spectator,” he says lightly, and Godric splutters with offense. He ignores the raised brow of the witch herding first years into their boats as he lunges, trying to shake the girls off and get to his friend. Salazar will be singing another tune after a dunk in the lake, Godric is sure of it.

Unfortunately for his grand plans of revenge, Helga is much stronger than she looks, and Rowena is all lean, sleek muscle because she’s always been in the habit of keeping herself fit. They pin him in place with twin huffs of amusement, and Godric only tries for a few more seconds before he resigns himself to the fact that there's no escape without resorting to bodily harm, and he isn’t willing to do that.

Salazar is still smirking at him, the bastard.

Because he’s never claimed not to be petty, Godric growls at Rowena. “I hope your boat splits at the seams and you have to _swim_ to the castle.”

And because Rowena has always been just as bad as him, she hisses back, “Just for that, you're riding with me.”

“Three to a boat,” the witch with the severe haircut calls. “Quickly, please.”

The line in front of them moves obediently, and Helga finally releases Godric to step back beside Salazar. “Good luck!” she says cheerfully, and Godric has just opened his mouth to thank her when he realizes she isn’t looking at him, but Rowena. Rowena smirks at him, too, sweetly superior, and steers him towards the next open boat. There's already a first year in it, watching them wide-eyed and wary, and Godric feels something in him soften at the sight.

“Hello,” he tells the girl cheerfully. “You don’t mind sharing with myself and this lovely lady, do you?”

Eyes just going wider, she quickly shakes her head, and braces herself as they step in and settle themselves. Godric raps his knuckles against the side of the boat and feels an answering hum of magic that makes him smile, even as he wonders, a little morbidly, whether these are the same boats he and Rowena first enchanted centuries ago.

Then a flash of something in the dark water catches his attention, and he leans forward to get a better look as the boats start moving. Rowena, of course, promptly grabs him by the collar and hauls him back.

“My threat still stands, Gideon,” she warns him sharply.

Godric throws up his hands in protest, mindful of the cramped confines and the innocent bystander. “Roberta! I'm in the damn boat, I left those gorgeous thestrals back in the rain, and I've yet to hex you! What more do you want from me?”

Rowena’s expression is supremely unimpressed. “I want you to _sit_ in the damn boat all the way across the lake, and not go throwing yourself overboard the first time you think you see something interesting.”

“Um.” The first year looks back and forth between them, more bewildered than frightened now. When Rowena and Godric turn to her, she inches back a little, but ventures, “Isn’t—isn’t there a giant squid in the lake? You might—might want to be careful.”

“Oh, the giant squid is perfectly friendly,” Godric assures her cheerfully. “It’ll even play fetch if you can catch it in the right mood. No, what you want to watch out for are the—ow!”

“Ignore him,” Rowena informs the first year. “He’s an idiot and has _no tact_.”

Godric gives her the expression that he calls “wounded dignity” and Salazar calls “pouting”, rubbing his much-abused skull. “You're going to give me a concussion,” he complains. “And it’s not like there are any _really_ dangerous creatures around the castle. They all tend to stick to the Forbidden Forest.” He glances back at the little girl, hoping that he hasn’t scared her, and blinks.

Surprisingly, the first year is giggling at them, cheeks flushed and eyes bright. There's no trace of the nerves from before, and it makes Godric grin. “You're really good friends, aren’t you?” she asks brightly, and Godric’s grin softens into a smile.

“The very best,” he assures the girl, because it’s true. No matter the fights they have or the tension between them, there are three people in the world Godric will never turn his back on, for any reason, and Rowena is one of them.

When he looks up, Rowena is watching him with an almost heartbroken expression, blue eyes clearly aching. The smile she favors him with is tremulous, but unspeakably grateful, and Godric physically can't resist the urge to reach out and offer her his hand. She takes it without hesitation, and maybe…maybe it was just as nerve-wracking for Rowena, asking them to meet after so long. After all, she didn’t have any guarantees that he or Helga would answer, whatever her connection with Salazar. She couldn’t have known whether they’d hold a grudge, or distance themselves, and even if she hates to be emotional, Rowena still _feels_. It’s possible that Godric let the front she puts up with everyone fool him too, if only briefly.

With that in mind, he tangles their fingers, squeezes her hand gently and then lets go, and smiles at the girl. She’ll be a Hufflepuff, unless he misses his guess. “Gideon Griffiths,” he introduces himself. “And this avenging angel is the brilliant Roberta Roanoke. May I ask your name, miss?”

“Rose,” she answers, and flushes when Godric takes her hand and kisses the back of it with a wink. “I'm Rose Zeller.”

“A perfect name for a perfect lady.” Godric grins cheekily at her, then straightens up. There's a flicker in the water, something green and flowing, and he waves cheerfully into the darkness. Always best to be polite, even if there's no guarantee the lake’s inhabitants will see it.

It’s impossibly gratifying when there's a pause, and then a flash of one green fin as the merperson dives back to the depths. Godric can recognize a return wave when he sees one, and that little acknowledgment cheers him immensely.

Rowena gives a longsuffering sigh and rubs her temples. “Dear Merlin. Gideon, you're _impossible_.”

“Incorrigible,” he counters with a laugh. “I'm still cute, right?”

She rolls her eyes. “You haven’t been cute since you were four feet tall.”

“Dashingly handsome, then?”

“Only in your wildest dreams, you utter ham.”

“I'm adorable,” Godric declares proudly. “You're just jealous.”

Rowena eyes him, but there's the faintest tell of a smile tugging at one corner of her mouth. “I assure you, Gideon, of the many, many things I am, jealous of you is not one of them.”

The boats gently bump against the shore, and Godric hops out first, offering Rose and then Rowena a hand out. To their left, Helga is bent over next to a terrified-looking boy, hands on her knees as she talks to him in the comforting, good-natured ramble that Godric knows from experience will erase his fears completely given the opportunity. Salazar stands with his arms crossed, looking above it all even as the rain starts to come down more heavily, but he’s watching the sodden first years as they gather on the shore, and the expression on his face is gentler than normal, something close to tender.

They're all of them fond of children, no matter how many years pass. Godric hooks his fingers in his belt and watches the eleven-year-olds whisper to each other, most of them some flavor of nervous. It’s…good to see, honestly. Good to be reminded that these small bodies are the reason for Hogwarts, more than any overarching ideal or intention. They founded this school so that they could teach, so that they could build on generations of knowledge in danger of being forgotten or wiped out. War and strife both reigned, when they built Hogwarts. There was death everywhere, and even witches and wizards were unlikely to live much past middle age. Entire bloodlines, with all of their magics and lore, were wiped out by disease or prejudice or fighting, and the four of them had grown sick of it all too quickly.

Hogwarts was their answer. Somewhere safe, somewhere special, where all knowledge was welcome and anyone could attend and learn and share what they knew. And it’s still the same, even a thousand years later.

That’s rather incredible, when Godric allows himself to consider it.

“This way, please!” the professor guiding them calls, raising her lantern in the gloom. “Come along, no dallying.” She sets off up the path, and there's a jumbled rush to follow her. Godric lets the first years pass him, in no hurry to reach the castle, and Rowena waits with him. To his surprise, so does Rose, and when she catches his look she smiles a little sheepishly.

“I don’t know anyone else here,” she confesses. “I'm Muggleborn. Do you—do you mind if I stay with you?”

“Of course not,” Helga says with a warm smile, joining them. The first year boy she was talking to is trailing in her wake. “Gideon, Roberta, this is Euan. Euan, these are my friends Roberta and Gideon.”

“And this is Rose,” Rowena answers, nudging the girl forward to walk beside the boy as they start towards the castle. “Rose, the pretty one is Heidi, and the constipated one is Solomon, more friends of ours.”

“I beg your pardon,” Salazar demands indignantly. Rowena just smiles sweetly at him, then jabs Godric in the side with her talons and gives him a meaningful look. Knowing what she wants, and entirely unwilling to get caught in a posturing match between her and Salazar, Godric obediently offers his arm, and she takes it with a faint smirk at the Slytherin.

Salazar’s eyes narrow. He looks to Helga, but she’s already up ahead, happily picking her way up the path with a first year on either side. There's no way he can turn the tables on Rowena without making a fool of himself, and Godric knows that that’s one thing Salazar will never do, either consciously or not. Instead, the man stalks up to Godric’s other side, laying a hand between his shoulders as if to guide him up the path, and gives Rowena a sharp glare.

Godric considers protesting the fact that he’s being treated like a piece of meat, but one look at his companions and he gives up on that thought before it can even fully form. He’s a warrior, and knows how to pick his battles. This is one he definitely won't win.

The rain is picking up as they reach the castle. Godric is quite relieved to get out of the cold, and even more relieved to be able to wriggle out from between his two escorts. He bolts for Helga, uncaring of appearances and the way Helga is laughing at him behind a hand. Because he’s not about to risk his one port in the storm, he doesn’t even bother giving her a nasty look as he ducks behind her to hide. It would probably work a lot better if there weren’t a good twenty centimeters of height difference between them, but beggars most certainly can't be choosers.

“Gideon,” she says dryly, and reaches up to pat the top of his head. “Poor little fire-top, were they being mean to you? I'm sorry.”

“Not hardly. They're always scarier when they're _nice_ ,” Godric complains, slinking after her as she moves to follow a stern-faced witch in green robes. “Why do we put up with them again?”

Helga giggles, but before she can answer the line comes to a halt, and the witch approaches them with a brisk, “Miss Hathaway, Mister Griffiths. We’ve made arrangements for you and your companions to be sorted with the first years. Welcome to Hogwarts.” Then she’s gone again, leading the line of new students out into the Great Hall and into a spreading hush.

Godric does a quick scan of the staff table. He tries to keep up with the changing headmasters, at least, if not the other teachers, and so it isn’t a surprise to see Albus Dumbledore seated in the center, smiling kindly at Euan, who’s all but trembling with nerves. The others are more or less unknown, though it’s a little confusing to realize that Binns is transparent. He was already old the last time Godric checked in with the school, but apparently he’s just never stopped teaching. Godric can admire that kind of dedication, though he wonders if the man’s death has improved his teaching abilities at all. Somehow, it doesn’t seem likely.

The sight of his old hat, battered and worn but still holding together, sitting on a stool in front of them, brings with a pang of fondness and nostalgia. He smiles before he can help it, ignoring the way whispers start up again as he, Helga, Rowena, and Salazar file out after the first years.

And then the hat begins to sing, and Godric’s blood runs cold.

_“For were there ever such friends anywhere_

_As Slytherin and Gryffindor?”_

On his left, Salazar is slowly stiffening, chilly grey eyes narrowing as the hat keeps singing. Singing about _them_ , their first great fight, the one they all thought would end their friendship permanently.

_“The Houses that, like pillars four,_

_Had once held up our school,_

_Now turned upon each other and,_

_Divided, sought to rule.”_

Helga and Rowena exchange wary glances. Rowena’s lips are pressed into a tight line, and Helga looks pale. It’s not fun to be reminded of their failures, and Godric can feel his hands clenching into fists, no matter how he tries to keep his composure. His mind is racing, trying to decide whether the hat actually _knows_ or if this is just another variation of its usual song. Of course, there's every possibility that it recognized Rowena when she enrolled them, but…why the warning, then? And it’s quite the dire warning, really, carefully pointed. _And we must unite inside her or we’ll crumble from within._ It doesn’t get much more pointed than that.

Maybe it’s a good thing they picked this year to return.

He can hear the sharp, low breath Rowena hisses out, even as the professor calls Euan up to the stool. A surreptitious glance shows that she’s thinking furiously, ideas flying like quicksilver behind her dark blue eyes. Helga is watching her too, worry almost hidden behind the fall of her golden curls, and she meets Godric’s eyes before he can look away. Hers are deeply troubled, and he knows exactly how she feels, because he’s the same. With a faint, strained smile, he turns his attention back to the Sorting just in time to hear, “Griffiths, Gideon.”

When he steps forward, whispers start up again, but Godric just pastes on a cheerful grin and settles on the stool, dropping the hat onto his head. He’s quite a bit younger now than he was when he owned it, and it slips down over his eyes, blocking out the Great Hall and staring students.

There's a moment of absolute silence, and then a small, warm voice says, _“My old master. It’s been far too long.”_

 _It has_ , Godric agrees silently, and this time his smile, when it comes, is genuine. _You're just as creative as you used to be, I see. Was that song meant for us?_

The hat pauses, faintly uncomfortable, and then answers, _“Well. I suppose. Just a reminder, though. I wouldn’t presume to—”_

 _Presume away,_ Godric reassures it. _From the state of the world, I’d say we need every reminder we can get. But though I’d love to stay and chat…_

 _“Perhaps another time,”_ the hat agrees, and makes a sound as though it’s clearing a nonexistent throat. _“Well, this might be the simplest Sorting I've ever completed. You’d hardly be anything but a GRYFFINDOR!”_

The last part is out loud to the entire Hall, and Godric all but bounces out of his seat, remembering at the last minute to place the hat back on the stool. He gives the professor calling names a cheeky grin, and gets a faint, rather satisfied smile in return. He’s willing to bet she’s Gryffindor’s Head of House.

The Gryffindor table is in the same place it’s always been, and even if it wasn’t, Godric could find it with his eyes closed, given the cheering. He glances around for an open seat, notices Potter and his friends, and waves a greeting but doesn’t go to sit with them. Instead, he commandeers an open space across from the redheaded twins he noticed on the train, right next to the dreadlocked boy.

“Do you mind?” he asks.

The twins exchange looks, but shake their heads, and the dreadlocked boy leans over and offers a hand.

“Lee Jordan, mate,” he says cheerfully. “Forgive me for saying it, but you look a little old for a first year.”

Godric laughs, shaking his hand without hesitation. “Gideon Griffiths,” he returns. “And I'm not. Fifth year, promise. Our parents finally decided they wanted us out of their hair while they were traveling.”

“ _HUFFLEPUFF_ ,” the hat cries, and Godric glances up in time to see Helga head across the floor. He gives an ear-splitting whistle of congratulations, and she laughs, waving back before she takes a seat at the Hufflepuff table.

When he looks back, the twins are watching him curiously. “Girlfriend?” the one on the right asks, arching a brow.

“Inter-House dating, mate, always a challenge,” the other chimes in. “Sure you want the stress?”

Godric snorts. “She might as well be my sister,” he informs them. “Older sister, while we’re at it. And even if she weren’t, Heidi’s hardly one to give other people stress. Now, if you want stress, _Roberta_ —”

…is glaring at him, of course. She’s always been frighteningly good at lip-reading. Godric gives her a slightly sheepish smile and waves contritely. She narrows her eyes, then turns to watch a boy stumble his way to the Slytherin table with what is clearly a haughty sniff. Godric’s had that particular expression directed at him more than enough times to know.

Jordan, having caught the exchange, is laughing, and the twins are grinning, looking like mischief incarnate.

“Not a girlfriend either, then,” the one of the right says, sounding disappointed in him. “Griffiths, you’ve got to be doing something wrong, letting a bird like that slip through your fingers.”

“Excuse you, Roberta is _terrifying_ ,” Godric counters. “And she’s about twenty times smarter than me. I'm cute as a button, but I'm really not her type.”

“George Weasley,” the one on the left offers merrily. “Don’t worry, mate, I’d date you.”

“Fred, also a Weasley,” the other chimes in, grinning. “I wouldn’t. No offence, but I don’t think you’d pull off a dress.”

“I actually look quite smashing in green,” Godric informs them solemnly.

The students on either side of them are staring to edge away slightly. Godric just gives those he catches staring a grin, and then looks back at the staff table as the hat shouts, “ _RAVENCLAW!_ ”

Rowena gets a cheer from him as well, but ignores it with all the poise of a queen as she sweeps past to her table.

“Oooh, in the doghouse,” Fred stage-whispers to his brother. “I’d advise chocolates.”

“Perfume?” Jordan suggests.

George snorts. “More like the oldest, dustiest book you can find in someone’s attic. Did you not notice what House she’s in?”

“I've met Ravenclaws who don’t like books,” Godric counters. “There are more types of intelligence than just being good at school. But for Roberta—ah, she’ll forgive me, no worries.”

“That cute as a button thing?” George asks, a little dryly.

“Nah, but who else is she going to pick on? I'm her favorite target, and that’s worth more than gold to her, mate.”

The twins mouth something that looks like _whipped_ at each other, but seeing as they’ve never met Rowena, Godric magnanimously forgives them for their ignorance and ignores it.

The pause between names being called draws his attention up front again, and with a faint frown he sees Salazar sitting rigidly on the too-short stool, hat on his head and expression unreadable. Straightening up a little, he tries to see what’s happening, but before he can make out whether Salazar is in distress or not, the hat cries, “ _SLYTHERIN!_ ” and Salazar rises smoothly to his feet. Even when the hat comes off, his expression is still unreadable, but he shoots a quick, veiled glance at Godric as he steps away.

Obligingly, Godric gives him a loud whistle, too, and the Slytherin rolls his eyes, shakes his head, and answers with a dismissive flick of one long-fingered hand as he heads for the other side of the Hall.

Godric grins, happy as ever to get a rise out of his best friend, but when he turns his attention back to the conversation all three boys are looking at him with raised brows and varying degrees of incredulity on their faces.

Oh, right. He’d forgotten just how bad the House rivalries can be, these days. With a roll of his own eyes, he huffs, “What? He’s a Slytherin, not evil.”

“I've never noticed much of a difference between the two,” Fred points out, slightly wary.

Godric just shakes his head. “We were raised together. Solomon can be a bastard, but he’s the best friend I've ever had. Being in different Houses isn’t going to change that. I won't let it.”

And he won't. Things might not be perfect between them—between _any_ of them— right now, but they're still the Founders. They're still themselves, and after so long, even after fifty years without any of them near, Godric simply can't imagine existence without them. Their bonds were deep to start with, forged of sharing the same dream, and the time since has only deepened them, solidified them. There have always been differences of opinion, small arguments, larger quarrels. Godric’s never allowed such things to split them apart before, and he’s not about to start now.

The twins are still studying him, careful and considering. “House Cup?” George asks, as if testing the waters.

“Definitely ours,” Godric answers promptly. “Are you joking? There's nothing better than rubbing a victory in that bastard’s smug face.”

“Ah,” Jordan says with a tone of sudden enlightenment. “ _That_ kind of best friend.”

The twins look at each other, and then at him, and lift their brows curiously.

Godric ignores them, returning Jordan’s grin. “I pull his pigtails all the time, too,” he confides, and the boy laughs.

It’s _good_ , Godric realizes suddenly. This, being around his own House, with people more like him than the other Founders could ever dream of being—all of his tension is gone. That roiling, angry resentment in his gut is receding like a tide going out, and every muscle is relaxed. It feels like he can finally breathe again after too long underwater.

Coming back as a student was definitely what he needed, and if there was ever any doubt as to Rowena’s genius, it’s been firmly quashed.

“So,” he says, changing the subject to something a little easier. “Professors, best and worst—care to share?”

That gets grins all around, and the twins lean forward. “In order of who to prank first,” Fred offers wickedly, “let’s start with Snape—on the end there, glowering, nose only a mother could love.”

Godric grins back, leaning in as well. After a lifetime of being a professor himself, he’s looking forward to being on the other side of the tricks for once.

 

 

It seems Rowena was actually understating things, when she told them of the Ministry lackey posing as a professor. Godric scowls, drumming his fingers against the tabletop as he stares moodily up at the staff table, good humor banished by the little pink toad’s words. ‘ _Progress for progress’s sake must be discouraged, for our tried and tested traditions often require no tinkering…pruning wherever we find practices that ought to be prohibited.’_ It’s all a load of rubbish, but Godric has lived through several royal courts, has endured more meetings with political figures than he cares to count, and can read between the lines. Every one of those pretty phrases can be pared away to mean ‘The Ministry will be sticking its nose in, and you’d best shut up and like it.’

Well, Godric for one doesn’t like it at all.

As Dumbledore dismisses the school, Godric rises to his feet, catching Helga’s eye. Her features are pinched with worry again, and it doesn’t ease even when Rowena pushes out of the crowd to rest a hand on her arm. She just shakes her head, and Rowena looks up and catches Godric’s eye. Godric heads for them immediately, and can see Salazar doing the same from across the Hall.

“—pure _rubbish_ ,” Rowena is growling when he gets within earshot. “Those pretentious, idiotic _blowhards_ in the Ministry, spitting all over our ideals and claiming it’s in the name of _tradition_ —”

So maybe that’s the reason Helga still looks worried. Rowena isn’t exactly in a comforting mood at the moment, it seems.

“Perhaps we should take this elsewhere,” Salazar suggests, trading a look with Godric. Godric nods and takes Helga’s arm; Salazar, with his logical, lateral thinking, is far more likely to soothe Rowena right now. Godric is mostly good at riling her up, and that’s definitely not what they need.

With one last, worried glance at her friend, Helga allows him to pull her out of the Hall in the wake of the crowd. There's a momentary lack of students, and Godric takes advantage of it, tugging her through a doorway that looks like a tapestry and into the small room behind it. Originally, it was built to keep a surreptitious eye on untrustworthy guests, and it looks like it hasn’t been touched by anyone but the house elves since they left Hogwarts the first time. The furniture’s new, but it’s in the same arrangement, and Godric steers Helga to an overstuffed chair without needing to look at the layout. Salazar and Rowena follow a moment later, the Ravenclaw still fuming, flushed with angry indignation as she all but throws herself down on the sofa.

“That _toad_ ,” she huffs again, and then subsides with a furious mutter.

Leaning against the arm of Helga's chair, arms crossed over his chest, Godric gives her another moment to be sure she’s finished, then says, “So, on a scale of one to Prague, how fucked are we?”

Salazar looks pained as he lowers himself beside Rowena. “Must you bring up Prague?” he mutters.

“Language,” Rowena adds immediately, but it’s moody rather than rebuking, and Godric can tell that her heart isn’t in it. “And I think this ranks up there with Moscow. The second time.”

Godric winces. He was afraid of that. Still, this isn’t the end of the world. They knew what they were getting into with this; it’s just…a bit worse than they expected.

“We can count the Board of Governors out, I think,” he says, considering the situation carefully. Plans of attack are his forte, after all. “The Ministry will have them firmly in hand, if they let Umbridge in here to begin with. Maybe not all of them, but as a whole, they can't be trusted. Perhaps this one is best played if we just…get rid of her.”

That gets him a sharp look from Helga, who frowns. “That’s not fair of us, Godric,” she reminds him. “I don’t like the look of her either, but there's the chance she’s a good teacher. If we force her out, the next one might just be worse.”

“We can't give her so much as an inch,” Salazar counters. “She, and the Ministry, will take advantage without hesitation. I have no doubt they've set their sights on the Headmaster’s position—anything else would be too impermanent a change. They're looking to restructure Hogwarts from the ground up, no matter their talk of preserving traditions. Any chance they get to force him out of office will be taken, and we can't allow that.”

Rowena hesitates, and then ventures, “That curse. On the Defense position. Logically, we can assume it gathers strength as the year progresses, until by the end of term it has enough power to concentrate ill luck around the teacher. What if we…helped it along a little?”

It’s brilliant, and Godric grins. “I can find it,” he says with certainty. “Give me a few hours in the classroom and I’ll be able to pinpoint the spell nexus. Then we can feed more magic into it. A curse like that, we can probably have it to capacity in a week or two.”

Helga huffs softly. “And what if the next one is _worse_?” she repeats. “We can't just slap a plaster on the problem and let it fester. We have to deal with the _source_.”

“The source being that no one believes Voldemort’s return, which is casting doubt on the headmaster for his continued support of Potter’s claim.” Salazar looks thoughtful. He produces his wand with a twist of his wrist and flips it nimbly through his fingers, expression edging towards calculating. Godric watches, breath caught somewhere down in his throat, because he’s always loved Salazar most when he’s like this, mind racing and plotting and planning for every possible outcome. “So we must…draw him out.”

That, at least, brings Godric’s attention firmly back to the problem at hand. He taps his fingers on empty air that should hold his sword hilt, and hums thoughtfully. “But first we’ll have to discover what he wants,” he points out, “beyond total control of wizarding Britain. That can't be his only aim. These madmen are all the same.”

Salazar freezes, but because Godric is watching he can see the sudden, almost desperate dart of his grey eyes towards Rowena, who is equally still. Her expression is unreadable, but that too is a tell—it means she’s hiding something from them, and Godric is willing to bet Salazar is in on it.

Frown deepening, Godric looks between the two of them, trying to fit the pieces together. It’s not as though he’s stupid, he can see that there's something here, something to do with Voldemort and his aims. But why should they know anything? After all, they’ve all been separated for fifty years—

And fifty years ago, Voldemort first began his rise to power.

Godric stills, tapping fingers falling silent as he drops his gaze to the floor, hiding the flicker of understanding that just crossed his face. There's a chance it’s just a coincidence, but Godric’s gut is telling him it isn’t, and he’s long since learned to trust his instincts. Fifty years ago, Voldemort rose to power, and only a few weeks before the first major incident, Salazar and Rowena separated them. They separated _Helga and Godric_ , the emotional, straightforward ones, the ones most likely to go charging in headfirst without telling the others, but there's no way to tell if Salazar and Rowena parted ways then.

It’s something to do with the Founders. It has to be.

Godric takes a breath, the sudden clarity giving him enough recklessness to say, “He’s styled himself as Slytherin’s heir, hasn’t he?”

Rowena looks up sharply, eyes narrowing as she tries to follow his train of thought—not likely, because Godric’s never followed the predictable, logical lines she has. “Yes,” she acknowledges slowly. “It’s one of the things that gives him such clout among the purebloods—direct descent from one of the purest lines.”

Salazar snorts derisively, clearly showing his opinion of such a claim.

“And,” Godric continues, casting a surreptitious glance at his best friend, “according to the history books, Salazar’s greatest rival was always me.”

It’s enough of a plan. It will have to be.


	4. IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is plotting, apples, boys in trees, ladies in trees, absolutely no trips to the rose garden, and dancing in the Great Hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Several people have commented on Merlin actually being taught at Hogwarts according to Pottermore. Ignore this, please; it makes the history student inside me cringe, seeing as the first mention of Merlin appears in the 500-600s (CE), and Hogwarts was founded around the year 1000. On that note, Helga's memory takes place around 927, when most of Wales ceded power to the English kings. I figured it was a good excuse to get them all in the same geographical region, and shamelessly appropriated it. The details are entirely fabricated.
> 
>  
> 
> (And yes, what appears at the end is indeed an American-style Viennese waltz, because regulation or not the showy steps are _fun_.)

The pieces connect, and in a flash Rowena is on her feet, expression tight and eyes lit with a dangerous light. “ _No_ ,” she growls. “No, Godric, don’t you  _dare_ even think of it!”

“Not as my _self_ ,” Godric retorts, exasperated, because he can follow the line of her thinking well enough. “But all the rest of you have descendants, proven bloodlines. If it’s one of you, someone will call us on it. But there's no established Gryffindor bloodline. If I turn up out of the blue, well, it’s just a descendant finally surfacing, not some sordid tale of adultery or bastard children. And as long as people know Voldemort has returned, the circumstances won't matter. Just having people realize will discredit the Ministry, and they’ll have to leave Hogwarts alone.”

“ _No_.” Salazar rises to his full height, face pale with fury. “You cannot think to do this. You will be making yourself a target not just for this Dark Lord, but for every one of his followers, and he has _many_ , Godric. This is the height of stupidity.”

“Then give me a better plan,” Godric challenges, facing him squarely and meeting those storm-cloud eyes. “Give me a way to draw his attention, to draw him out of hiding.”

“A duel,” Helga suggests, breaking the tension as she stands as well. Her face is set in determined lines, brown eyes firm and fierce. “Don’t tell him it’s _you_ , but challenge him as Gryffindor’s descendant to Slytherin’s. You don’t even have to do it in person, if he has as many follows as Salazar says. Just…give him a sign, a reason to believe you, and a place to meet, and make sure everyone else knows as well.”

“Or just meet in the Ministry,” Salazar drawls, but the tension is easing from his shoulders. He studies Godric for a moment, then says quietly, “You know you’ll have to ‘die’ during the duel, don’t you? Otherwise it’s too much attention on us. We won't be able to keep on as we have been.”

Godric shrugs, and it feels like something settling inside him, sharpening, focusing. He’s been on edge since he heard of the threat to Hogwarts, and to actually have the beginnings of a plan of action, a target, is shifting him from impotent anxiety to battle-readiness. The latter he can handle. The former would have driven him mad inside a week. “I assumed as much,” he says easily. “A little overdramatic, to be struck down by each other’s final blows, but we can't let it get out that we’re still alive.”

Salazar’s mouth pulls tight at that, but he simply inclines his head and says nothing. Godric looks at him for one more moment before he pulls his eyes away, facing the girls. “So. How do we get his attention, then? What sign do we use?”

Rowena breathes out, long and slow, and sinks back down to the sofa, lacing her fingers together as she thinks. “We’re going to need resources,” she says. “Some way to follow his movements, or know what he’s doing. There's an organization—the Order of the Phoenix. If we can approach them and convince them to help us…”

“Dumbledore is their leader,” Salazar adds, “which makes it all the more convenient.” He pauses, meets Godric’s eyes, and then says thoughtfully, “Godric. What happened to your sword?”

Rowena’s head jerks up as though she’s been stung, eyes wide with what is clearly the beginnings of panic. Helga makes a sound of distress and hurries to her side, wanting to know what’s wrong, but Rowena only spares her a distracted wave. “Godric?” she demands.

Godric gives them both a bewildered look, automatically touching the empty space where it should hang. “It was summoned,” he says, perplexed by their very different reactions. “Three years ago now. Someone at the school needed it, so the Sorting Hat provided it. I can feel it in the Headmaster’s office, but I haven’t bothered to call it back yet. There isn’t much of a need for swords these days.”

Rowena’s breath escapes her in a relieved rush and she slumps back to the sofa, raking both hands distractedly though her hair. “Merlin’s withered balls, Godric,” she growls, her voice muffled. “You're going to give me a _heart attack_.”

Helga shares a glance with Godric, clearly just as lost, but Salazar looks pleased. “We need to impress upon the Order that it’s in their best interests to cooperate with us,” he says. “Or rather, with the Heir of Gryffindor. And I can think of little that would show your blood more than calling that sword to your hand.”

Rowena nods, still shaky but rapidly improving. “If we make it showy and impressive enough, they won't question it. So we need to overwhelm them.” She eyes Godric critically. “Perhaps skip the aging potion, then. The sword, a show of power, maybe a request for them to help you kill Voldemort—phrase it in a way that makes it seem like you don’t _need_ their assistance, but you're kind enough to ask regardless.”

Godric just shrugs, because as vital as battle plans are, as good at them as he is, when it comes to people he’s far better at simply winging it. He has some charisma, some ability to get at the heart of a person after a short acquaintanceship, but for the most part he’s still a brash, headstrong mercenary bratling used to getting answers through a sword’s edge or a well-placed spell rather than diplomacy or maneuvering.

“Align ourselves,” Helga offers thoughtfully. “We should show them where our loyalties lie before we even approach them. That will make it far harder for them to dismiss us, won't it?”

Rowena smiles at her, blue eyes warming—not like ice melting, because for all her coldness at times Rowena is not an icy person, but the first violets showing through the snow, hinting at the life beneath. Of the four of them, even counting Salazar, Rowena has always been the best at masks.

“A good idea,” she affirms. “The Death Eaters have been staging raids on Muggle villages. If we can predict which, or get word in time, we can just…interrupt. A few instances like that and the Order will be the ones to approach us, I'm sure. You're a gem, Helga.”

Helga blushes, ducking her head to hide a pleased, bashful smile behind her curls, and Godric chuckles. “Careful there, bright eyes,” he teases gently. “If the wind changes your face will stick like that.”

Helga harrumphs in indignation, giving him an annoyed glance, and Rowena sighs and chucks a cushion at his head. Godric just laughs and catches it, then throws it back to her.

“Ah, yes,” Salazar says dryly to no one in particular. “Godric Gryffindor, professional ruiner of moments. How could I have forgotten?”

 _That’s what you get for being gone for fifty years,_ Godric thinks, but it doesn’t have nearly the bite it would have before dinner, before meeting his House again. Instead, he sweeps a gaudy, mocking bow in thanks, and when he looks up Salazar is hiding a grin behind one long, pale hand. Godric grins back, inordinately pleased with himself for getting that reaction, and the joy of it buries the last few twinges of resentment, if only for now.

And then, because Rowena is _awful_ , that same cushion smacks him in the side of the head. Godric catches it as it falls, slanting her his best glare, but her only response is a merciless smile.

“Back on task,” she reminds them all. “Godric, how long would it take you to set up a spell that watches villages for a sudden attack?”

Godric shifts to sit on the arm of the chair Helga vacated, considering it. He hasn’t used such a spell in probably six hundred years, and he’s fairly rusty. Hogwarts’ library might be helpful, but then again, it also might not. There's not much call for such archaic monitoring spells any longer, and Godric would be surprised if anyone beyond a handful of medieval scholars even remembered they existed anymore. Still, spellwork has always been his greatest strength—especially offensive spellwork, and with the right tweaks, an observation spell like that could definitely become such a thing.

“Give me a week,” he finally decides. “If I can't recall one by then, I’ll need your assistance in the library, Rowena.”

“You _always_ need my help in the library,” Rowena points out, the sharpness of her tone not quite able to hide the exasperated affection lurking underneath. “Eternally hopeless—that’s a good description, don’t you think, Salazar?”

“Oi,” Godric protests, straightening up and glaring at his three friends. “Need I remind you just who here is the spellwork genius? _You_ came to _me_ when you needed to enchant that ridiculous riddle-opening to your common room, you harpy.”

Salazar snorts softly, and cuts Rowena off before she can puff up too much and subsequently explode. Wisely, he also doesn’t answer her question. “Given that Voldemort is a Parselmouth, I cannot be certain that he hasn’t guaranteed their loyalty, but I will try to speak with the snakes near the castle regardless. At the very least, they will have some idea of the comings and goings nearby, and act as an early warning system. At best, perhaps they will have an idea as to where the other speaker has gone to ground.”

Godric lets himself grin, and this time he knows there’s nothing nice or amused about it, all teeth and dark intent. “Well, I must say I'm all for that idea. Nothing would discredit the Ministry quite like dropping a hogtied Dark Lord on their doorstep.”

Helga laughs, leaning into Rowena’s side a little—and, tellingly, the other woman doesn’t shift away. “Careful there, fire-top,” she mimics. “Your Animagus is showing. If the wind shifts you could get stuck that way.”

Godric laughs too, because that’s hardly an insult—or a threat—as far as he’s concerned. “There are worse things I could imagine,” he counters.

But Rowena is looking thoughtful again. “An option,” she murmurs, mostly to herself, and then shakes her head and looks up again. “It’s getting late,” she points out, rising to her feet and brushing off her skirt. With a smile, she offers Helga a hand up, and the blonde takes with a pleased blush. “We’d best get to our common rooms before our absence is noted. Anything else that needs to be addressed before we do?”

Salazar stirs himself from his looming position, taking three steps to stand beside Godric. “Are we playing along with their little prejudices?” he asks, and though the question is directed at Rowena, Godric is the one his grey eyes linger on. “I cannot say I relish promoting their ridiculous levels of House rivalry.”

Godric’s breath catches, but he smiles through it, and gets the faintest hint of a smile in return. He’s not quite settled enough to reach out and take Salazar’s hand the way he once would have done without thought, but the idea is there, and that’s a definite improvement from just twenty-four hours ago.

“Fuck that,” he says succinctly, and it’s just a little above a growl. Maybe Helga has a point about his Animagus form. “I say we turn them all on their ears and give them something to think about.”

“Agreed,” Rowena says instantly, and the smile she shares with Godric is dark and full of a mischief he’d almost forgotten she had in her. Then again, Rowena has always loved upending people’s expectations and dancing a jig on the ensuing wreckage. “The matter seems to have gotten quite out of hand since the last time we looked in. I say a reality check is in order.”

Helga giggles, and there's a matching light of good humor in her gaze. “By any means necessary?” she suggests, and Godric laughs, because he’s well aware of what she means by that. It appears they're going to be pulling out all stops, then.

“Why ever would we do something halfway?” Salazar asks rhetorically, a slow, secretive smirk turning his expression into something Godric finds absolutely breathtaking. Then, with one last, graceful nod, he strides up to the tapestry-door, orders, “Let me see,” and when the hanging turns transparent to show an empty corridor, strides through without pause.

Godric stays where he is for one more moment, trying to scrape a few brain cells back together, and then chuckles and stands, giving it up as a lost cause. “Have a good night, my ladies,” he offers, sweeping Helga and Rowena another courtly bow just to hear them laugh, and follows Salazar out.

 

 

Surrounded by black and gold for the first time in centuries, comfortable and warm and with the tight knot of worry inside her finally beginning to ease, Helga sleeps well and deeply, and dreams of times long since passed.

She walks down a neat stone path, delicate shoes entirely unsuited, long skirts getting caught in the cracks and surrounding grasses. The sun is up, but she sneaks regardless, casting furtive glances around for anyone who might object to the middle daughter of one of the visiting lords creeping into the kitchen gardens. But there's no one, so Helga lets out a breath of relief, tells herself to stop being a ninny, and squares her shoulders. She has the right to go anywhere she likes, even if these are foreign lands, and the only thing stopping her is everyone else’s opinion. There's absolutely no reason a lady should stay out of the kitchen gardens just because it’s assumed the castle’s rose garden should be more to her tastes.

Still, she thinks a little whimsically, it’s rather _exciting_ , slipping out of her lessons to go somewhere she knows her tutor—and her father—would disapprove of her being. They're stiff and stilted and entirely too focused on propriety, especially around the Muggles here, who’ve come to discuss Wales declaring fealty to the English King Alfred. Only a handful of them are magical, Helga's family among them, and the constraint—playing at being something she’s not, hiding so very much of herself—itches at her. Unbearably at times, though she knows it’s for the best. Christianity is spreading and the old ways are being pushed back, and with them the acceptance of magic as anything but one of the Devil’s gifts.

It makes Helga sad, to see such prejudice taking hold, but there's little she can do beyond keeping her head down and avoiding the suspicion of the visiting noble families. Granted what she’s doing now probably isn’t overly discrete, but better to be thought a little odd than completely hide who she—

The loud _thump_ of a heavy boot suddenly landing right in front of her all but makes her jump out of her skin. She flinches back, automatically reaching for the wand hidden up her sleeve, but thankfully before she can reach it a voice calls, “Sorry about that!”

Bewildered, Helga looks around, sees nothing, and then raises her head and looks up into the apple tree that hangs over the path.

A boy grins back at her, suspended upside-down among the branches as he hangs from his knees, his red hair practically the same shade as the deep crimson apple in his hand. He gives her a cheeky wave, then sets his apple in the fork of a branch, unhooks his legs, and drops. Helga doesn’t even have time to yelp, though she wants to—he’s _falling_ , he’s _falling headfirst,_ he’ll _crack his damned fool skull open_ and she’s the only one nearby—before he somehow twists around in the air and lands a few inches from his boot in an easy crouch.

With a shaky breath, Helga presses a hand over her heart, which kicked into triple-time the moment he let go of the branch, and tries to calm herself. Even so, her voice is sharper than she intends when she demands, “Are you _mad_? You could have been hurt!”

The boy—young, now that she’s looking at him right-side-up, likely no more than thirteen years, all elbows and knees and a skinny body that speaks of too many growth spurts too close together—favors her with the most deeply unimpressed look she’s ever seen outside of her harridan of a nursemaid, tugs his boot back on without lacing it, and rises to his feet. With a careless shrug, he brushes a few leaves off his plain black tunic and looks up. “If I hurt myself that easily, Cousin Alaric would say I deserve it,” he counters, and then tips his head to study her carefully.

Green eyes, Helga realizes with faint surprise. Green like the leaves above them, to match the apple-red of his hair. He’s not old enough to be handsome yet, still caught in the awkward grasp of youth, but he’s a pretty child, certainly. And that accent is definitely English, though rougher than what she’s accustomed to from those she’s heard in court. His clothes are rather plain as well, so perhaps he’s the child of a guardsman? Still, she can't imagine a mere guardsman would be allowed to bring his son on a political visit.

Before she can ask, however, the boy’s next words distract her entirely. He looks her up and down, more assessment than appreciation, and says lazily, “You look mighty fancy, milady, to be heading where this path leads. Did you get lost?”

Such condescension from a boy a good five years younger makes her bristle, drawing herself up straight. “I did not,” she denies sharply. “And who are you, to question me?” Granted, the words aren’t nearly as haughty as her elder sister can make them, but she gives it her best attempt.

The boy just laughs, bright and warm and infectious. “I'm Godric,” he offers cheerfully. “And you, milady?”

“Helga,” she answers, slightly mollified, and then blinks in surprise when she sees the boy reach up and grab hold of a thick branch again. He pulls himself up, kicking off the trunk and vaulting over the bough, and then leans over it and stretches out his hands.

“Well?” he asks, and there's a challenge in his green eyes, one he’s not even trying to hide. “Are you coming?”

It’s a bad idea. It’s a very bad idea; sneaking into the kitchen gardens she can get away with, because she’s always loved herbs and plants. Climbing a tree, with a _boy_ —her tutor is likely to faint at the mere thought.

But—

But it’s really a lovely tree, isn’t it? Perfect for climbing with its conveniently spaced branches and intriguing twists, with its apples so large and red and ready to be picked. It’s been _years_ since she last forgot herself enough to climb a tree, and she’d be lying if she said she hadn’t missed it.

Helga grins, watching Godric’s face light up in return, and kicks off her painful, mincing slippers, tucking them out of sight behind the tree. The grass is lush beneath her feet, sun-warmed tops and cool beneath, with just a hint of tickle. She curls her toes into it, then hitches up her overskirt and ties it around her waist. The thinner, shorter underskirt is enough for modesty, if only barely, and far easier to move in. Ignoring Godric’s offered hands, she grabs the same limb he did, hooks her toes in a particularly knotted section of bark, and drags herself up onto the first branch.

When she looks up, Godric’s brows are near his hairline, but the expression on his face is impossibly pleased. He laughs again, warm and inviting her to share it, and stands up on the bough to reach the next branch. The distance forces him to jump, and Helga's breath catches in her throat in momentary fear for him, but he manages it with ease and hauls himself up without care to retrieve his half-eaten apple.

Not to be outdone, Helga follows him, though she picks the slightly safer route of closely spaced branches that run in a spiral around the trunk. It’s simple, even more so than she had remembered, and by the time she pulls even with the redheaded boy, she’s fighting not to giggle. Godric grins back at her, enjoying the unspoken joke, and then sprawls out on his limb like a particularly smug Kneazle.

Not about to let that stand—it was _her_ choice to climb the tree, even if he may have goaded her into it—Helga leans out dangerously far to snag a particularly lovely apple, and then informs him in her best haughty tone, “I bet people tell you all the time that you're absolutely insufferable.”

His grin just widens, as though it isn’t an insult at all. “Mostly Salazar,” he agrees readily. “And my cousin. And the Company’s weaponsmaster. And my other cousin, come to think of it.”

Helga laughs before she can stop herself, because after months on end spent around her father and his advisors and few other people, such straightforwardness is utterly refreshing. Almost addictive, really. “You look like the Kneazle that caught the Diricawl,” she says with amusement, taking a bite of her apple. The flesh is crisp and sweet-tart, its flavor bursting over her tongue. “Was getting me up here that important to you?”

“So you _are_ a witch!” A look of delight spreads over the boy’s features. “When I jumped down, you were reaching for your wand. I thought so! And of course it was important—you looked like you needed to lighten up a little.”

Helga blinks in surprise, casting another look at her companion. It takes a moment, and a much closer look, but eventually she finds the subtle runes sewn into the hems of his tunic and carved into the leather bracers around his wrists, the faint line in his sleeve where his wand doubtless lies. It’s a joy that she hadn’t expected, meeting one of her own kind after hiding it so carefully for the past months, and she breathes a sigh of relief before she can stop herself.

“Then you're a wizard,” she returns, smiling. “Oh, I'm so glad! I hadn’t thought to meet many others here.”

Godric’s green eyes are merry as he shifts back, swinging his legs on either side of the branch and brushing a spray of leaves away from his ear. “My entire family is magical,” he confirms. “Falcon Company. Or, well, I suppose we’re Baroness Winnifred’s Company now. Maybe her court? It’s a bit confusing, since we’re supposed to be all respectable and such.”

With a start, Helga realizes what he’s talking about. A band of mercenaries, led by a _woman_ , who for unknown services to King Alfred were granted a barony near Cornwall. Her father has spoken of them more than once, always with a mixture of contempt, awe, and wariness. Sellswords, he calls them—spellswords, when he’s feeling particularly whimsical. Magical mercenaries with only the barest ties to any ruling power, hiring themselves out to anyone with the gold to pay them, all of them fierce and deadly warriors willing to do anything for money.

She tries to connect the idea of such people to a cheerful boy with bright green eyes, goading people into climbing trees with him because they look like they need it. Tries to connect it with Godric’s easy smile and lazy grace, and…well. She doesn’t quite know what to believe, except that she’s always given people the benefit of a doubt before she lets herself judge them, and she won't do any differently now. Not when Godric is watching her with the faintest edge of wariness in his cat-green eyes, the slightest bit of tension as he perches on the branch.

 _Fair_ , she reminds herself fiercely. _No matter what, you have to be fair. Give everyone the same chance, because that’s how you’d want to be treated. Don’t you dare look down on him without knowing the full story! Don’t you dare treat him differently, even if you're scared!_

“I suppose that depends entirely on how you see yourselves,” she says, carefully keeping her voice light. “Does Baroness Winifred _want_ to be a baroness, or would she rather just be the leader of your company?”

It might be relief that dances through Godric’s eyes, or it might be something else entirely. He laughs, though, so either way it’s clearly nothing bad. “The leader of our company,” he answers without hesitation. “Merlin, the first time Winnie went to court, they tried to make her wear a dress! I thought she was going to throw the king’s seneschal through the window when he told her.”

Helga remembers her one, brief glimpse of Baroness Winifred when her father introduced his daughters to the court: a tall woman as broad as a man, with sunshine-yellow hair caught up in a high crown of braids. She’d worn breeches like the rest of the lords, and carried her massive broadsword openly, as if daring anyone to look down on her. Helga had liked her on sight, and largely on principle; anyone who inspired equal parts fear and cultured dismay from her father was a hero in her books.

“Did she?” she asks curiously.

“What, throw him through the window? Or wear the dress?” Godric laughs and shakes his head. “Neither, actually. Winnie will be dead and buried before anyone gets her into a gown, but Alaric intervened before she could hurt someone. He’s good at redirecting her temper. Usually onto _me_ , but then he’s a right bastard so it’s to be expected.”

Nevertheless, his tone is definitely fond, and Helga can't help smiling. It dies a quick death, however, at the rustle of skirts over stone and the delicate, mincing footsteps of her most overbearing maid. “Oh, bother,” she huffs, quickly scrambling higher in the tree and ducking around to the far side of the trunk, as far out of sight as she can get without casting a Disillusionment Charm.

“Lady Helga!” the woman calls, firmly disapproving. “Lady Helga, it’s time to return to your lessons! Oh, where could that silly, featherbrained girl have gotten to?”

Godric’s brows are rising again, but this time his expression is even less impressed than the one he’d originally directed at her. He snorts softly, then chucks his apple core aside, drops back down to the lowest branch, hooks his knees over it, and lets himself drop to hang right next to the maid.

Helga is quite gratified to hear the woman scream, since she had managed not to. Perhaps it’s a little mean-spirited of her, and she _does_ feel slightly guilty for the thought, but she’s been a perfectly biddable lady for months now, never taking even a moment to herself. She’s earned this little break, and she’s certainly not about to end it prematurely.

Also, Helga knows she’s a great many things, but _featherbrained_ is most certainly not one of them.

“Looking for someone?” Godric asks brightly, and there's mountains of mischief in his smile.

“You—you—” The maid gropes for an insult grave enough, then clearly gives up. “Have you seen a young lady go by? Short, with blonde hair, wearing a blue dress?”

“I saw her,” Godric answers readily, and Helga only just manages not to swear and throw a curse at him on reflex. She’d thought they were _friends_ , and how is that _fair_ —

“She was going that way,” Godric adds blithely, pointing down the path. “Maybe check the rose gardens? They're to your right.”

Technically everything he just said is the truth, just phrased in a way so as to be entirely misleading. Helga lets out a silent breath of relief as her maid hurries onward, turning right at the end of the courtyard and then disappearing from sight.

“You're trouble, aren’t you?” she asks in amusement, sliding back around the trunk and reclaiming her apple. A sharp twig catches her wimple and drags it off, and blonde curls spill out of confinement to fall, cheerfully chaotic, around her face. “Oops.”

Godric laughs, swinging himself back up in an impressive display of flexibility. “Winnie says that, too,” he agrees merrily. “But I think if we stay here any longer, we’ll be found out. Do you still want to see the kitchen? I can take you; the servants there like me. They're always letting me sneak food out.”

“How did you know I was going there?” Helga asks curiously, tucking her wimple away to deal with later. She dislikes wearing it anyway, and the dappled sunlight is warm against her hair.

Godric shoots her an amused glance, tucks another apple into his pocket, and slides down like a cat, all barely-controlled descent and graceful landing. “Well, you definitely weren’t going to the rose garden, not with the way you were sneaking around,” he points out, grinning up at her. “The kitchens are the only other choice from here.”

“I wanted to see their herb garden,” Helga admits without shame; she’s only known Godric for a handful of minutes, but she can already tell he won't judge her for being less than ladylike. “I heard they're cultivating several plants they brought back from across the sea, and I wanted to take a look at them.” Her descent is quite a bit more careful than Godric’s, but then, skirts are more of a nuisance to climb in than breeches.

She wonders a little absently if Lady Winnifred could help her find a pair of her own.

Godric straightens, brushes himself off, and then sweeps an arm out in a truly ostentatious bow. “Allow me to provide escort, milady?” he offers, almost but not quite managing to contain his cheeky grin.

Helga sticks her nose in the air, fighting down a giggle, and takes his arm the way her older sister does, all haughty distance and superiority. “I suppose I can accept, as my options seem sadly limited at the moment,” she laments dramatically, making Godric laugh. He presses his hand over hers, friendly rather than flirting, and Helga smiles right back, letting him lead her away.

She’s made her first friend in this distant, unknown place, among all the manipulating and backstabbing and power-mongering going on, and it feels unexpectedly _right_.

 

 

“I don’t suppose you play Quidditch, Heidi?” Susan Bones, who occupies the bed directly to Helga's right, asks without much hope as they make their way into the Great Hall for breakfast. “Our team’s rather poor right now.”

Helga offers her new friend a faintly sheepish smile. “Well, a little. You like Quidditch?”

Susan smiles back, the first to approach Helga when she finally made it back to the dormitory last night. She’s cheerful and friendly, and so very much a Hufflepuff that being around her feels like coming home, even without the constant comfort of Hogwarts itself to draw on. “Of course I do. The Hollyhead Harpies are my team, how about you?”

About to answer, Helga catches sight of a flash of red and glances over to see Godric just stumbling into the Hall, laughing. One of the redheaded twins he was sitting with last night has him in a headlock, and the other is boxing his ears, both of the older boys grinning. Their third friend, with the dreadlocks, is trailing along behind, shaking his head even though he’s grinning, too. Helga smothers a giggle and lifts her hand in a friendly wave. The twin hanging on to Godric’s ears returns it cheerfully, half a second before Godric wiggles out from between them, boots the one on the left in the arse, and leaps onto the back of the other with a whoop. He catches sight of Helga and beams at her, then dances nimbly away from the twins’ attempt to grab him and slides neatly into his seat at the Gryffindor table, crowing his victory.

It’s good to see him so happy, Helga thinks fondly, taking her own seat between Susan and Hannah. Godric never stops smiling, but…sometimes he means it less. Sometimes it’s just as much a mask as Salazar’s icily maintained distance.

With that in mind, she glances across the Hall to where green and silver are congregating. Salazar is seated squarely in the middle of the table, lounging like the lord he used to be, and everyone around him is casting him wary glances. Only one, a black boy with high cheekbones, seems to be speaking with him, and Salazar returns the comment with an expression of cool amusement. A blond whose slightly pointy face has flushed a blotchy red is clearly fuming, if the glances he’s shooting Salazar—not nearly as surreptitious as Helga would have expected for a Slytherin—are anything to go by.

“Wonder what the new boy did to get Malfoy so worked up,” Susan murmurs, following Helga's gaze. “And he’s even gotten Zabini on his side. That’s impressive.”

Helga just shakes her head. “Solomon's always known just how to find divisions and use them,” she answers. “I bet you a galleon he’ll be running the whole House inside of a week.”

“Easy money. Done,” the redheaded girl counters. “Malfoy’s family is one of the most powerful right now, so he’s Slytherin’s prince. There's no way he’ll let someone take that from him.”

Well, a fifteen-year-old boy who can't even hide that he’s upset will hardly be able to match Salazar, who was born to a noble court and has spent the last millennium perfecting his natural cunning, Helga thinks wryly, but doesn’t say anything in response. Susan will see for herself just what comes of trying to beat Salazar at a game he might as well have invented himself.

Rowena too is seizing power, Helga finds when she glances across the Hall. Resplendent in her House colors, she’s seated close to the head of the table, holding a debate like she’s holding court, and Helga has to wonder how many of those around her are halfway in love with her already. Rowena is beautiful in the way of a Highland storm—overwhelming, breathtaking, crashing over everything one knows and leaving a sweeping sense of change in its wake. Her bearing is regal, her hair a fall of dark silk down her back, and the wildfire intelligence in her blue eyes changes her already lovely face into something impossible.

Helga adores her desperately, unwaveringly, can't even vaguely recall a time when she didn’t.

But looking at her right now twinges painfully, deep down inside, and she turns away before Rowena can catch her staring and read her thoughts on her face.

(The food should be good, should be amazing; Helga knows it, because she’s the one who created the charms, who taught the house elves. But for all she tastes it might as well be dust and ashes in her mouth.)

A hand taps her shoulder, suddenly enough to make her start, and in the same moment music sweeps through the Great Hall as if carried on a breeze, cutting through the chatter of the students. After so long, Helga is more than able to recognize Godric’s spellwork, even if she didn’t recognize the strong, sword-callused fingers offered to her. In an instant all of the pain of Rowena’s desertion is pushed aside, momentarily forgotten. She laughs, realizing what he wants, and scrambles to her feet as fast as humanly possible.

When she makes it over the bench, Godric is waiting, a grin on his face, crimson hair all but glowing under the grim grey of the rainy sky above. His eyes sparkle with challenge, and as ever Helga rises to meet it. She lifts her chin, takes a step forward, and dips into a perfect curtsey even as Godric meets her with a courtly bow. They slide together as the music builds, steps coming with the ease of many years’ practice, and Helga laughs as Godric whirls her into a lively spin. A Viennese waltz is far easier in flats than the heels she’s used to, and that makes it effortless to follow as Godric sweeps them down the aisle between the House tables.

“By any means?” Godric murmurs in her ear, then swings her out in a showy turn that has her robes whirling around her legs.

Helga can't contain her grin as her feet touch down again, natural turn to reverse turn to change steps and back again as they dance, and she can already tell they're headed for the Ravenclaw table. She should have known that Godric would come up with something like this when she spoke those words. He’s never been the predictable type.

“I’ll admit,” she manages, already slightly breathless, “this isn’t quite the means I had in mind.”

“But fun?” he wants to know with a grin, and Helga laughs.

“Oh, fire-top,” she says fondly, because he knows it is, and has just enough time to realize the music is fading before he dips her.

There's a long moment of breathless, bemused silence around them as they step apart, and then Godric turns, offering a hand to Rowena in clear invitation. Like a current changing, the music is picking up again, beginning on a downbeat, and Rowena, halfway to her feet, stops short and glares.

“You are _not_ ,” she says witheringly, “making me dance a gavotte, Gideon.”

“But _Roberta_ —” Godric whines, though Helga can see the merry mischief in his gaze.

“No. Try again.” Rowena crosses her arms over her chest and stares flatly at him. “Do _better_.”

With a sigh, Godric reaches for his wand, flicks it in a complicated pattern like a conductor before an orchestra, and the music shifts into an English waltz. Rowena listens for another moment, then inclines her head, accepting it. She curtsies, Godric bows, and the stately rhythm sweeps them away as they spin between the tables. Helga watches them go, entirely amused by the sight, though she probably should have known Rowena wouldn’t let Godric show her up. She never has, and it’s gotten the two of them into unbelievable amounts of trouble over the years.

Most people nowadays seem to think that Hogwarts got its motto from something Godric and Salazar did. Helga wonders what they would say if they knew it was Godric and _Rowena_ who gave rise to that particular bit of wisdom. _Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus_ , indeed.

Then she realizes just where Godric is leading the pair of them and covers her face with a groan.

When she steels herself enough to peek between her fingers, though, no one’s been dismembered yet. Rowena is stepping back, expression archly amused and ever so slightly wicked, and Salazar is just rising to his feet, meeting Godric’s grin with a lifted brow. Several people are gaping, but both wizards ignore them.

In the silence, Helga can hear it quite clearly when Salazar says, “Don’t think I'm about to let you lead, Gideon. I remember what happened last time.”

Godric throws his hands up, expression dramatically long-suffering. “Everyone’s a critic,” he complains, but dips into a flawless curtsey nevertheless. Salazar smirks, bowing in return, and flicks his wand. The Vienne Waltz starts up again, and Godric’s expression turns exasperated, but before he can protest Salazar steps forward and sweeps him into a fast turn, his footwork flawless. Not about to be outdone, Godric matches him step for step, even though Helga knows he isn’t nearly as good at the Viennese waltz when he’s following.

Still, Godric’s “not nearly as good” is better than many people’s “excellent”, and she tips her head to watch them, a small smile on her face. They make a striking pair and nearly always have, Salazar with his long dark hair and stern features and Godric with his bright red locks and infectious smile. When Helga looks at them now, it could be any time in the past millennium that she’s seeing, or maybe even all of them, merging into one.

They're timeless, the two of them, and Helga knows it’s the same with herself and Rowena. For all the pain of the last fifty years, for all the loneliness of separation, she’s never doubted that eventually the four of them will overcome even this. There simply isn’t another option. There is nothing that will ever be able to break them apart permanently, because even though Helga has never subscribed to the idea of soulmates, there are just some people who were born to be together. Their quartet like that, and she believes it without even a shadow of a doubt.

“What lovely eye-candy they're giving us so early in the morning,” Rowena murmurs, and Helga glances up to see the other woman join her, leaning against the bench and watching the two dancers with a fond tilt to blood-red lips.

“They're beautiful,” Helga agrees, smiling at her, and Rowena smiles back. It makes something ease inside of Helga, and she wonders at the contradiction. So much as looking at Rowena hurts right now, but the only cure for it is Rowena herself. But then, Helga's never been overly logical, and it makes perfect sense to her.

The music fades away to nothing, and Helga tears her eyes away from Rowena to find Godric and Salazar standing in the middle of the space between the staff table and the House tables, staring at each other as though they're the only two people left in the world. She rolls her eyes a little, even as she smiles, because they’ve never been subtle about what's between them, even that one brief month where they tried to hide it. Rowena still mocks them both mercilessly for that.

The clapping takes her by surprise, and Rowena as well. They look at each other, then up towards the staff table, where it began. The Houses are clapping as well now, but the four Heads who started it are exchanging glances, carefully thoughtful, and the Headmaster is beaming.

“Marvelous,” he calls, and Salazar and Godric twitch apart, as though suddenly reminded that they're not alone. “Simply marvelous. Five points to each House, for a wonderful show of cooperation and grace. Thank you.”

Helga dips into a curtsey as Rowena does the same, and out of the corner of her eye she sees the two boys bow, manners all but automatic even for Godric by now.

“Well,” Rowena says, archly pleased as she rises, studying the faces around them. “That should definitely give them something to think about.”

Helga follows her gaze, flickering over the confused and the dumbstruck and the amused, and, laughing, has to agree.


	5. V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is copious amounts of angst, idiot boys, unicorns, poor decisions, bad teachers, and Godric rather losing his temper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My department finally got people who are _actually competent_ , and I am so goddamned _overjoyed_ to have time to write again. Hopefully updates will be faster than their previous glacial pace from here on out. 
> 
> Comments are incredibly appreciated, if you’d care to leave them!

Godric was entirely wrong. Death has not just “not improved” Binns’ teaching abilities, it’s made him _worse_.

Honestly, Godric hadn’t really thought he could be.

Valiantly resisting the somniferous drone of the professor’s voice—and it really shouldn’t be this boring, even though Godric already knows exactly what he’s talking about regarding the Treaty of High Willhays, given that he was present when it was signed—Godric flicks his eyes around the class, taking in a sea of unconscious students and the Granger girl. Against all odds, she’s upright and seemingly unaffected, taking notes diligently. Godric commends her enthusiasm, even as he surreptitiously draws his wand and taps the piece of parchment on his desk. The faint rapping noise doesn’t net him so much as a sideways glance, thankfully, and the spell spreads over the paper with a flicker of red mist.

Trying not to grin, Godric sets his quill against the paper and scratches out, _I blame you for all of this, I hope you know. I think my brain is going numb. Really, it’s about to melt out of my ears._

There's a pause—thirty seconds, by Godric’s count, probably so his chosen victim can remember a spell the four of them haven’t used in a very long time—and then words scrawl themselves beneath his in sapphire-blue ink.

_Piss off, Godric._

Godric rolls his eyes. Someone’s feeling testy. He’s willing to bet that Rowena forgot to account for the sheer, mind-numbing _boredom_ that is sitting through a fifth-year class when they've had almost a thousand years to learn and grow.

 _Ooh, someone’s got a bug up her skirt,_ he scribbles. The boy in the seat next to him—Thomas, Godric remembers—is giving him a disbelieving look through half-glazed eyes, and Godric remembers belatedly that there's not really anything to grin about when studying giant wars and their resolutions. Oops.

This time, the reply is almost instantaneous, which means Rowena is just as bored as he is. _Fine. You might possibly have a point. And Merlin, if this fool doesn’t start pronouncing_ Nauthiz _correctly I'm going to throw this textbook at her. Certified Professor of Ancient Runes, my arse._

Godric grimaces in unhappy sympathy, even though he knows the threat isn’t an empty one—and Rowena’s throwing arm is just as terrifyingly efficient as the rest of her. _Wait until you get Binns. I hadn’t thought anyone could make the Battle of Cross Fell boring enough to put an entire classroom to sleep._

 _Impossible,_ Rowena counters. _The Battle of Cross Fell with the giants and the dark curses that made the sky go black for three days? Boring? Can't be done. You were there, you should know!_

 _I'm going to laugh at you_ , Godric informs her. _You're going to fall asleep too, and I'm going to laugh at you so hard, Rowena, you’ve no idea._

There's a brief pause, and when Rowena’s words scribble themselves onto the paper again, they're all but brimming with malicious glee. _Go bother Salazar for a change, Godric. Or think about that monitoring spell, if you’ve nothing else to do. This fool just asked if we had any questions. I'm going to make her regret her existence._

The final full-stop is stabbed so deeply into the parchment that it might as well be a dagger-wound, and Godric spares half a second to pity the Ancient Runes professor, who’s about to have a very bad day. Rowena in a snit makes Godric willing to throw himself off high places without a broom to get away from her. Rowena in righteous high dudgeon—that’s several thousand times worse, and she has little care for innocent bystanders. Even more so when it’s about her beloved arcane knowledge.

Altogether? Godric is very, very glad that he doesn’t have Ancient Runes until after lunch, in a class with only Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs.

(It also means he’ll get to see the aftermath of Rowena’s presence in class without having to actually suffer through it himself, which makes for a winning situation all around.)

Still, Rowena’s suggestion is a decent one, and he taps his quill idly against the parchment, considering whether he wants to disrupt Salazar or Helga, or actually try to reconstruct an old watcher’s spell. It’s tempting to simply pick the former, because Godric is still recovering from five decades spent apart and reveling in the others’ presence, no matter if he still feels a twinge of resentment against Rowena and Salazar or not. Were they not in separate Houses, Godric is fairly certain he’d be doing a decent impression of a leech with at least one of them.

He suspects that Helga, at least, wouldn’t object.

Still, locating Voldemort takes precedence over bothering the others, and with a faint grimace—and one more glance at Binns to see if he’s miraculously improved in the last five minutes (in vain, as is likely to be expected)—he flips his parchment over and pauses, trying to recall the necessary runic diagram.

“Start in the north quadrant,” he mutters absently to himself, repeating Winifred’s long-ago lesson in building wards as he lays down careful, sweeping lines in a diamond shape. They’ll have to place anchor stones at the cardinal points, preferably as close to laylines as possible, and then smaller anchors along the perimeter to provide a more immediate response if something does trigger the spell. Working from there…

Godric sighs softly, rubbing at one temple, and then lets himself sink further into the particular still intensity of concentration, trying to piece together bits of a spell long since forgotten.

 

 

Salazar is…unhappy.

That’s probably not a good sign, seeing as Godric’s going to be stuck in the same class as him for the next hour and a half.

(Also, Godric would kindly like to know why nearly all of his friends are so damned tetchy, and also terrifying.)

Still, faint heart never won much of anything, especially information, so Godric pushes past a knot of second-years and hurries a few steps to snag the strap of Salazar’s satchel, giving it a light tug. Salazar’s head snaps up, his eyes narrowing and his nostrils flaring, but then storm-cloud grey settles on Godric’s grin and his expression eases faintly.

“Gideon,” he says, and his tone manages to be mild rather than sharp, though judging by the lines around his mouth it takes effort.

“Sal,” Godric answers cheerfully, and waits until they’ve turned into a deserted hallway to murmur, “What's wrong? Did something happen?”

Salazar’s mouth twists, pulling to the side in an expression that’s definitely unhappy. “I took a moment before breakfast to slip down to the Chamber. It was…disheartening.”

Godric winces. Given what Rowena said about the basilisk being set on students three years ago, he hadn’t expected anything good to linger down there, but Salazar was always incredibly fond of the giant snake. He’d seen to her hatching personally, raised her until she could fend for herself, and then placed the stasis spell on her so that she’d survive the years without needing to hunt. To go down and find what was likely her carcass…

It must have hurt him, and for all the currents of resentment that still linger, Godric has never, _ever_ wanted to see Salazar hurt.

On instinct and out of long habit, Godric reaches over and catches Salazar’s long, pale fingers in his own, gripping them tightly and puling the other wizard to a halt. Just for a moment, he remembers their dance at breakfast, those hands on him, that intent gaze unwavering, and has to remind himself to keep breathing even as Salazar glances over curiously.

“I would have come with you, Sal,” he says softly. “If you had asked, I would have in a heartbeat. You know that, don’t you?”

Salazar pauses, studying him, and then sighs softly. “You’ve never been fond of small, dark spaces, Godric,” he reminds him, reaching up, and for half a heartbeat Godric thinks the Slytherin is about to touch him the way he used to, cup his cheek and smile at him, lean in for a brief, glancing kiss. But instead, Salazar simply brushes over the Gryffindor crest on Godric’s robes and then lets his hand drop, murmuring, “Always the brave fool.”

With a sharp huff, Godric opens his mouth to protest, possibly to swear at the prickly bastard. Before he can, though, Salazar just shakes his head. “No, it wasn’t important enough to bother anyone else with. Just…a whim. Put it out of mind, Godric. We have no time for sentiment.”

And then he disentangles his hand from Godric’s, steps away, and sweeps towards the dungeons without a single glance back.

It hurts like that first separation all over again, seeing him walk away.

Taking a shallow, careful breath, Godric moves two steps back to brace his shoulders against the wall and closes his eyes. There's a hot, hollow sort of ache in his chest, one he’s grown all too familiar with over the years, and had he an ounce less self-control Godric would draw his wand and shatter this hallway into dust with the force of his fury. At himself, far more than Salazar, because he’d forgotten.

Forgotten the way Salazar’s eyes moved through him, past him. Forgotten that it was Rowena who called them back together because of a problem with the school, and not for any personal reason. Forgotten his decision to let Salazar go, to not push, when it became clear that his interest in Godric had waned. Waned and disappeared, like a moon into darkness, and after a thousand years surely such a thing was to be expected.

A thousand years, and Godric has loved Salazar for every single one of them, but clearly it just…wasn’t enough.

But if Salazar doesn’t want him anymore, that’s fine. It is. It _is_. Godric is hardly going to force the issue or, Merlin forbid, resort to something like Amortentia.

He’s an adult. He’s wise and aged and experienced, and he can handle rejection. Even if it’s from the person who’s dearest to him, he’ll survive. Survive and let Salazar go, because Salazar is an amazing, enthralling man who deserves to be happy, and clearly Godric can’t give him happiness anymore.

It hurts, like a mortal wound, but it’s survivable.

(Just.)

“Are—are you all right?” a soft, tentative voice asks, and Godric takes one last careful breath to steady himself and opens his eyes, fixing a smile to his face. It’s Granger, with Potter and the youngest Weasley boy hovering a few paces behind her, looking cautious. Granger’s face is closer to worried, though, and Godric’s smile becomes a bit more genuine at the sight of it.

“Fine,” he says, keeping his tone carefully light as he pushes away from the wall. “I think I'm just a little homesick, that’s all.”

True words, though he wishes that they weren’t. After all, Godric’s home isn’t a place, it’s a person. A person who doesn’t want him, who dismisses any connection they once had as _sentiment_ , despite what Godric had thought was an understanding reforming between them after this morning.

There's no quick cure for something like that.

Potter’s glance is quick and veiled, but slightly incredulous. “Did you…not want to come to Hogwarts?” he asks disbelievingly.

Godric snort. “What? Hardly. Hogwarts is the most amazing place ever built by human hands, and anyone who doesn’t want to be here is a complete fool. But…missing the past, missing people and how they used to be—that can count as homesickness, don’t you think?”

Granger gives him a thoughtful look as the four of them start down the corridor again. “That’s more nostalgia, I would think,” she counters.

Godric tips his head back to take one last look at the sky through the windows before they head down the stairs towards the dungeons. It’s still grey and rainy, grimly depressing but to be expected of Scotland in September, and to be honest Godric missed even that. Missed everything about Hogwarts, about the way he, Rowena, Helga, and Salazar used to be when this really was their home. That’s the cause of his homesickness, he thinks.

“Maybe you're right,” he admits easily. “It’s easy to confuse the two sometimes, don’t you think?”

“I miss when Percy wasn’t a complete prat,” Weasley volunteers, clearly trying to make things a little more cheerful with a small change of subject. It’s enough to make Potter smile, at least, though Granger rolls her eyes.

“I thought you said he’d always been a prat,” Potter counters, some of the tension easing from his face as humor takes its place.

Weasley snorts. “Not a _complete_ one,” he retorts. “But working for Fudge has finished the job.”

Both boys are sniggering as they step into the Potions classroom, and Granger gives a longsuffering sigh as she and Godric follow. The three students take a table in the very back, and Godric only hesitates long enough for Granger to smile encouragingly at him and pat the chair next to her before he joins them. There's a head of dark hair up at the font, but Godric carefully doesn’t look in that direction. Instead, he watches the severe, imposing professor sweep into the room, closing the door behind him with a sort of menacing finality that’s truly impressive.

Dark eyes catch Godric’s and narrow. Godric just meets the man’s gaze with a level stare of his own, and refuses to be intimidated. Fred and George had told him last night that Snape has made a sport of picking on the Gryffindors more than any other House, and Godric isn’t about to give him ammunition. He dislikes bullies and always has, and for someone in a position of such authority to be abusing it—

Well. Godric’s never really been known for his mercy, and he can be cunning when he needs to. If Snape needs to be reminded that professors—even the Heads of House—are supposed to be above House rivalries, Godric will be more than happy to do so, and he’s absolutely sure that Rowena and Helga, at least, will help him. Likely Salazar as well, but…

Godric doesn’t want to think of him right now. Later, when he can push the ache down, when he can remember not to be so selfish. At this moment, however, he’s going to indulge in his pain, and if that makes him a lesser man so be it.

He takes a breath, pushes his emotions down, and opens his eyes to watch Snape sweep towards his desk, black robes billowing impressively. A sharp turn, grandiose, and the professor says with an edge of threat, “Before we begin today’s lesson, I think it appropriate to remind you that next June you will be sitting an important examination, during which you will prove how much you have learned about the composition and use of magical potions.”

There's more, but Godric rolls his eyes surreptitiously and stops listening. The man’s menace is admirable, and likely eliminates all possible roughhousing in his classroom, which with potions can only be a benefit. Still, for all that he’s not the deftest hand at this particular subject Godric is better than decent, and has made practically everything at least a handful of times. He’ll survive without paying Snape’s threats couched as instructions too much mind.

He’s certainly not brooding— _or_ wallowing—even if that’s doubtless what Rowena would say.

The Draught of Peace is, at least, familiar—the Hogwarts infirmary has always carried a stock of it, and it’s especially popular around exam time, to temper nervous breakdowns. Godric has brewed it before when Sal—when he was shanghaied into helping restock, before they hired a real mediwitch. Since he’s confident in what he’s doing, he tugs out his spell diagram again, keeping half an eye on the flames under his cauldron and half an eye on his companions. He’s more or less managed to recall the spell’s setup, though the southeastern edge looks slightly doubtful—too bare, he thinks, though—

“Whoa, there,” he says quickly but quietly, reaching around Granger to grab Potter’s wrist before he can add the essence of lavender. “Don’t forget the hellebore. The Draught won't work without it.”

Potter blinks, takes another glance at the chalkboard, and then winces. He gives Godric a grateful nod, and Godric smiles in return before looking back at his parchment. With a frown, he considers the marks, then sighs and turns back to his potion. He’s never been fond of Pensieves—the security risk they represent makes the mercenary in him cringe—but at a time like this he can admit having one would be useful.

A faint flicker of memory comes to him just as he’s lowering the intensity of the flames beneath his cauldron, and he stares blankly at the tip of his wand for a moment before muttering a curse at himself and reaching for the spell diagram. Half an instant before his fingers can touch it, however, a pale hand snatches it up, and a shadow falls over the table.

“My, my, Mister Griffiths. Catching up on homework already?” Snape asks silkily, angling the paper so that it catches the light from the torches. Then he pauses, dark eyes narrowing faintly before they shift back to Godric, and he lifts a cool brow.

“No, Professor,” Godric answers, trying his best to keep his tone even. “It’s a personal project.”

That gets him another sharp look, assessing and almost wary, but before he can say anything there's the scrape of a chair, and Salazar stands. “I'm sorry, Professor,” he says, perfectly polite. “Both of us have been working on it for a while now, and I'm afraid we were both overenthusiastic and unused to restraining ourselves in a classroom setting. It won't happen again.”

Snape looks at Salazar for a long moment, but the Slytherin holds his gaze without wavering. Eventually, Snape turns away. “Five points from Gryffindor,” he snaps, casts a scathing look down the table’s line of cauldrons, and then sweeps back to the front of the room, tucking the parchment into his pocket as he goes.

Godric lowers his eyes to his potion again, trying not to let his irritation show. It’s only belatedly that he remembers the messages written on the reverse side, and resists the urge to curse again. Half a second of wandless magic counters the communication charm; it will smear the ink as well, leaving it illegible. That spell, at least, Godric hasn’t forgotten.

It’s not until they're bottling their potions that Granger finally stops giving him curious looks and instead murmurs, “Do you mind if I ask what you were working on? I caught a glimpse, and those looked like runes.”

“Just scribblings,” Godric dismisses with a shrug. He hopes like hell that Snape’s not good enough at runes to understand the diagram, though short of pickpocketing the professor—an option, admittedly, but a risky one, since Snape seems like the sharp sort—Godric can't see a way to get it back. “I've been learning runes for a few years now, and that was just an experiment. Nothing important.”

It’s hard to pretend he doesn’t notice Potter and Weasley exchanging wary glances to his left, but Godric manages, making a show of concentrating on stoppering and labeling his flask. It’s almost endearing, that they think he might be some sort of threat. (He is, Godric supposes, though never, ever to any of Hogwarts’s students.)

Salazar is watching him too, though he’s much better at being covert about it. Godric ignores him equally, because he can't manage to be a friend just yet. Soon, once he’s had a few hours to adjust, but…not yet. Not now.

When the bell rings for lunch, Godric is the first out of his seat and out the door. He thinks for a moment of going to eat in the Great Hall, but that would mean seeing Salazar again, or facing Rowena’s probing looks, or Helga's quiet worry. The library is another option. It’s bound to be empty, two classes into the term, and Godric would be able to recreate his spell diagram in peace. But—

Godric drops his bag outside the Ancient Runes classroom, casts a quick charm to keep anyone from disturbing it, and then heads for the main doors at a fast clip. It’s drizzling outside, the ground turning to mud under his boots, a chill wind lowering the temperature even further, but Godric hits the foot of the stairs already running. Long strides carry him over the lawns and right up to the shadow of the Forbidden Forest, and Godric doesn’t hesitate to duck through the looming border of trees.

Within, everything is green and dripping, the rain hardly reaching the ground thanks to the cover of leaves. Three steps in and Godric can already feel his breath evening out, his heart ceasing its jagged pounding. There's a rustle around him that someone less aware might miss, a pervasive sense of _sentience_ that comes from so many magical making this their home. Something quick and darting moves through the underbrush, and on a whim Godric follows it, stepping off the faint path and slipping through the tightly-grouped trees. The moss and leaf litter underfoot is springy, and each step makes Godric feel lighter, freer.

He loves his friends, adores them all and Salazar in particular, but he can't face them right now.

How ironic. After half a century of separation, he still needs space.

There's a whicker, a rustle, and a shining form steps from between the trees to greet him. Godric barely pauses, but throws himself forward, burying his face in pure white fur and twisting his fingers into the long mane. Thankfully, the unicorn doesn’t take offense, just huffs softly and turns to put him in the curve of its body, cradled and held.

A breath, another, and all Godric can smell is the sharp cleanness of rain on leaves, the musk of damp fur that’s more delicate than any non-magical animal could be. All he can feel is the delicate warmth, like spring sun, of the unicorn against him, the cool ivory press of its horn against his shoulder. This is comfort, this is a heart’s ease, and maybe, maybe if Godric is lucky it will give him the strength to be brave once more. The strength to look at his best friend, his partner, the man he loves, and smile as he lets him go.

“I wish I could be selfish,” he whispers, and feels the silken-soft brush as the unicorn’s ears flicker, listening. There's no other response, but…just admitting it is enough. Just saying it aloud once, where no one will ever hear, before he has to go back to being Salazar’s friend and nothing more. Surely that’s allowable. Surely no one can blame him for that.

Another soft whicker, a flick of a feathery tail, and the unicorn lips at his elbow. Startled, Godric laughs and lets go, stepping back a little. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to cling,” he apologizes, reaching out and stroking a finger over the velvety nose. The unicorn lips at that too, then dips its head and nudges at his hand. Taking the hint, Godric scratches gently around the base of the spiraling horn, and gets a pleased snort in response.

Apparently satisfied with the trade-off, the creature steps back, regarding him with one wise blue eye, and then turns away. With a short whinny in what is clearly farewell, it picks up a trot, vanishing back into the trees. Godric smiles as he watches it go, and then sinks back against the bole of an oak, crossing his legs beneath him as he takes a seat on the wet ground.

This is why he loves animals. No matter how much the others tease him, or how little they understand, animals—and especially magical creatures—simply seem to get Godric. They ask for very little from him, and give so much in return. Some of them are dangerous, yes, but Godric respects that about them, knows that it’s on his own head not to get hurt. They do as instinct tells them, and as long as Godric isn’t stupid, they won't hurt him.

Granted, grabbing at a unicorn probably isn’t the smartest thing he’s ever done, but unicorns are empathic, and for all their wildness they're gentle creatures at heart. It’s not likely they’d harm someone in distress, or seeking solace, and as much as he’d like to deny it Godric is most certainly distressed right now. By himself, again, more than anything, because it’s all on his own head. Salazar has made his position clear, and Godric has to respect that.

He will. He definitely will. But until he can, he has no compunctions about hiding out in the woods.

If he remembers correctly, there's a stream near here. Maybe the kelpie that used to live there is even still around. Godric could do with a gallop through the forest right now, even with the risk of drowning that always accompanies riding a kelpie.

If anything, he feels rather like he’d relish the challenge.

 

 

He slips into Ancient Runes with barely five seconds to spare, still tugging leaves and twigs out of his hair and trying not to track too much mud over the classroom floor. It’s difficult not to beam with the aftermath of adrenaline and exertion (the kelpie was indeed present, and very obliging right up to the point where he tried to drown Godric by diving into the lake), even when the professor gives him a severe look from where she’s standing by the blackboard. Godric ducks his head sheepishly, dropping into the first open seat and quickly pulling out parchment, ink, his textbook, and a quill.

One more chiding look and Professor Babbling faces the class, opens her mouth, and proceeds to live up to her name.

Ten minutes in and Godric finds he entirely sympathizes with Rowena’s frustration. Babbling, while not quite an idiot, clearly missed a few things in the course of her study, and her tendency to go off on tangents doesn’t help. Still, it gives Godric ample time to redraw his diagram while pretending to take notes, and the woman doesn’t seem inclined to pay attention to her students, so there's little chance of getting caught again.

Even so, Godric doesn’t quite dare trying out another note-passing charm after the close call with Snape.

(It’s still vaguely disappointing that none of the others attempt one, either, but Godric pushes the thought down and forces himself to focus on other things. They're just…busy. In class, though he can't image there's anything to actually learn. Just—not talking to him, not thinking of him, and it only feels like yet another rejection because Godric is being foolish and silly and overdramatic and—well.

At least the brooding is taking his mind off the boredom.)

“Are you all right?” Granger asks delicately as they're putting their things away after class. Godric blinks at her for a moment, startled, and she flushes a little. “I know I've asked you that a lot already, but you seem distracted. It can be hard coming into a new school and, well—”

She’s sweet. Sweet and smart, not quite like either Helga or Rowena, but entirely herself. Godric appreciates that more than he usually would, right now. He gives the girl a smile, tying the flap of his knapsack closed.

“I'm fine,” he says reassuringly. “It’s just an adjustment, being here. I'm not used to quite so much structure, I suppose. Been running wild too long, with just the four of us to worry about. But thank you, Granger.”

“Hermione,” she counters firmly, though she smiles back. “If you need anything, as a prefect I'm more than happy to help, you know. Fifth year and our OWLS are important, so don’t hesitate to ask.”

Godric laughs, because of all the things he’s worried about, tests don’t even begin to number among the multitude. Still, it’s an offer kindly meant, and Godric takes it in the spirit it’s intended. “Of course,” he agrees, then gives Hermione a courtly bow and offers her his arm. “You’ve quite a few books there, milady, and since we’re headed to the same class I might as well save you some effort and carry them.”

Hermione flushes faintly, clutching the strap of her bag a little more tightly. “Oh, no, it’s fine. I'm used to it.”

Since he knows when to stop pushing, Godric surrenders with a tip of one shoulder. “As the lady wishes,” he says cheerfully, and smiles as she flushes further. There's no protest when he falls into step beside her as they head towards the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, at least, so he didn’t offend her accidentally. It wouldn’t be the first time something like that happened. Godric tends towards standoffishness that borders on rudeness, oblivious cheer, or over-the-top chivalry where other people are concerned, and while most people can either laugh at him or ignore him, he’s ruffled his fair share of feathers that way.

“Excited for Defense?” he asks idly, ducking out of the way of a gaggle of younger Slytherins who all give him wary, slightly bewildered looks, apparently remembering the scene at breakfast this morning. Godric just grins and waves at them before falling back into step with Hermione.

The witch gives him an amused glance, but simply says, “Well, it will be interesting, at least.”

That’s the absolute truth, Godric knows, and frowns at the thought of the Umbridge woman. If only Rowena, with her position at the Ministry, had somehow been able to prevent this. But then, given that they made a pact to stay out of politics, he doubts Rowena was anywhere near influential enough to do something like block Umbridge’s appointment or take her place. It grates nevertheless, because having a Ministry toady teaching at Hogwarts itches at every one of Godric’s sensibilities, but he’s yet to see the woman teach. Maybe Helga's optimistic prediction will come true, and Umbridge will be a marvel in the classroom.

Somehow, Godric rather doubts it.

 

 

There is absolute silence in the wake of Harry Potter’s departure to see Professor McGonagall, Umbridge’s pink note clutched in one shaking hand. Seated at the back of the class, Godric leans back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, and watches Umbridge through narrowed eyes.

It’s even worse than they expected, even worse than the woman’s speech last night hinted at. The Ministry is going for complete denial, burying their heads in the sand and persecuting anyone who would try to tell the truth. Damn it all, but Umbridge just gave a boy detention for asking how they could cover up the death of a teenager at this Dark Lord’s hands. These people can't wrap their little minds around the possibility of Voldemort’s return, and so they're stamping on any whispers that it might be reality.

Given that Godric tends to live his life to the refrain of _better safe than sorry_ , especially where mass-murdering, maniacal Dark Wizards with dozens of followers and dreams of genocide are concerned, he can't say he has even the slightest bit of sympathy for how the situation will undoubtedly come back to bite them in the arse.

He drums his fingers against his elbow, watching as Umbridge straightens her desk, then clears her throat pointedly and repeats, “Now, page five, ‘Basics for Beginners’. Continue reading for the rest of class. There isn’t any need to talk.”

There is very little Godric wants more than to get up, take his textbook, and make her eat it. Or, barring that, curse her until she’s actually the toad she so resembles. But as tempting as it is to lose his temper, he has another twenty minutes to start locating the curse on Umbridge’s position. And once he does, he will be absolutely _overjoyed_ to stuff it full with as much magic as possible and bring all of that bad luck right down on her bow-bedecked head.

He dips his head over his open book, takes a quick glance around himself to make sure that no one is watching, and closes his eyes, opening his senses to the magic in the air.

It’s like diving into a warm ocean, a thousand currents pulling him every which way. Like standing in the center of a slowly-spinning hurricane, or at the heart of a tumbling kaleidoscope with colors blazing around him. Hogwarts is a nexus, a masterpiece of tangled spells and streams of magic all caught up in a glorious, complex, beautiful knot. Most people will never be able to tell, but Godric poured his blood into the creation of her, bound his soul up in the bricks that built her. Like Helga, Rowena, and Salazar, he’s as much a part of Hogwarts as the stone she’s made of, and that gives him insight.

There's no pattern here; Hogwarts has never needed such a thing. She’s a marvel, a wonder, crooked lines and tumbling spellwork and cascading charms and all. Every bit of her is built up on another piece, tangled together until nothing will ever, ever be able to pull her apart. It’s a safeguard, a defense. If all of wizarding Britain falls, Hogwarts will still be standing, and no matter what enemy tries to break her, she’ll resist.

Despite the carefully orchestrated chaos, knowing every piece of her means that Godric’s able to find what doesn’t fit. There are a few threads here and there, things he and the other Founders haven’t accepted into the main weave yet. A charm to discourage ants, a door pretending to be tapestry that’s been transfigured to look like a painting instead, a leftover spell to warm the air a few degrees in colder months. Godric brushes over them, pauses just long enough to be sure that they are what they appear to be and then keeps going, seeking out foreign traces as ruthlessly as he once did Dark wizards. There, and there—another here, Peeves’s work, to make the steps a little more slippery than they ought to be, and Godric undoes that with a roll of his eyes. Another, and—

The bell rings, jarring him back to the present, and Godric opens his eyes to find the class in motion, students packing up. Hermione and Weasley have their heads bent together, whispering furiously, but Godric looks past them, to where Umbridge is rising from her desk. Seeming to feel his gaze, she raises her head, and when she meets his sharp stare her eyes widen. She falters, just a little, and her face goes just a bit paler than normal.

Even knowing that it was foolish, pointless provocation, Godric looks away to hide his smirk, shoving his book back into his bag and then rising to his feet. He gives Umbridge one more glance in passing. She’s still staring at him, confusion on her face, but he ignores the look and strides out, one hand dropping to the pocket of his robes to find the piece of parchment tucked there.

He’ll start tonight, even if he has to do it without the other Founders. Tonight, because even one more day of letting the Ministry ooze about in _his school_ is one day too many.

The sooner Umbridge is gone the better, and Godric doubts he’ll find anyone in these halls who would disagree.

In the grasp of what Helga would definitely call one of his more dangerous moods, Godric decides to skip dinner as well. He has to push against the flow of students heading for the Great Hall, but the flurry of whispers questioning Potter’s sanity and truthfulness only drives him on. It’s maddening, infuriating, and Godric can't stand it. This, too, is the Ministry’s influence, and while talk of politics is something that even Hogwarts can't entirely escape, to hear it like this—so targeted, so _vicious_ , aimed against one of Hogwarts’s own and spurred on by people who would let the death of a child go unavenged, _unmentioned_ —Godric is absolutely sick of this already.

The first day of term and Godric’s already about to hex someone. Really, it must be some sort of record.

Finally, the human tide in the corridors eases, and Godric prowls unimpeded, too restless to find somewhere to settle. Logically, he should find one of the others—Helga, maybe, because she’s always levelheaded and able to (mostly) keep him from doing stupid things. Rowena, because even though she’ll be just as angry as Godric she’ll still be able to plan, to pick out hidden motives.

Not Salazar. Godric just…can't. Not yet.

There are a lot of things Godric should be doing right now. Eating, for one. Keeping up the first few, fragile friendships he’s formed in his house, for another. Finishing homework. Planning their method of attack with Salazar, Rowena, and Helga.

Lots of things.

But Godric isn’t going to do any of them.

The light is fading outside, darkness falling quickly under the cover of the clouds. Pausing beside one of the large windows, Godric stares out at the line of trees he can only just make out, then sighs. He rakes a hand through his short hair, listens for any hint of people nearby, and hears nothing. He’s at the end of one of the unused halls, so it’s unlikely anyone will come this way, and his agitation is enough to make him reckless. One hand rises to his throat, tugging the delicate chain out from under his robes, and Godric holds the two tiny vials up to the light. One is filled with a pale blue liquid, glittering faintly even in the dimness, while the other is matte-black and looks as thick as tar. Salazar’s handiwork, because there's likely no one in the entire world better at potions than him, and no one else Rowena would trust to play around with their ages.

 _Just for tonight,_ Godric tells himself, even though he knows it’s setting a dangerous precedent. _Just a few hours as myself. Not Gideon Griffiths, not some nameless stranger I won't even recognize in a mirror, but…myself. That’s all I need._

He uncorks the second vial and tips a single drop out onto his tongue. It’s as thick as it looks and tastes absolutely foul, coating his mouth with noxious, choking darkness. Godric swallows it down regardless, grimly determined, and feels the bone-deep tremor that means it’s working. A quickly-cast spell shifts his clothes before they can strain or tear, and when Godric straightens up it’s to the full height of a man, rather than a fifteen-year-old’s gangling stretch.

A thoughtful flex of his fingers and then Godric flicks a hand out, catching the sword that falls from thin air to land squarely in his palm. Shining silver, set with rubies, a simple straight blade and his name engraved beneath the hilt—one little bit of vanity, because this sword is Godric’s, more than anything else in the world. He’s bled on it, killed with it, protected people dear to him with it. He commissioned it, helped enchant it, invented whole rituals for this blade alone, to bind it to him and any worthy inside Hogwarts’s walls.

Carefully, testing, Godric flips it around in his hand, sweeps it out with a flourish, and twists around in a blindingly quick slash, steps back, and brings it flickering up in front of him. For a long moment he simply savors the weight of it, the heft of the metal against his skin, and then he smiles faintly, tips his head forward to rest his forehead against the flat of the blade, and breathes out slowly. His breath fogs the metal, leaves a tracery of white against the silver that just barely shows the faint heat of a glowing rune, and Godric inhales again, slow and deliberate. He can already feel his tensed muscles relaxing, his worry easing.

With the unicorn it was a moment of comfort, of escape.

With his sword in his hand, there is absolutely nothing in this world that Godric cannot face.

He turns on his heel, sliding the blade into the empty sheath at his side. Black coat, cut above the knee, black cloak with a heavy hood lined in red, tall black boots and a wide leather belt to hold his sword, and he feels like he’s fully himself again for the first time in decades. Feels steady, centered, _ready_ , and it no longer matters what lies behind him. No longer matters who he pretends to be, because right now he’s absolutely certain of who he is.

Godric Gryffindor draws up his hood, sweeps out a hand, and Hogwarts opens for him.

A hand on his sword, a grim smile on his lips, and he steps out into the darkness, ready to hunt.


	6. VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is more angst, thestrals, conversations with Rowena and Salazar, Helga rather losing _her_ temper, midnight wanderings, and some words of Gryffindor-style wisdom.

Unlike the vast majority of creatures in the Forbidden Forest, the thestrals are very close to domesticated. Not complete, never completely, because Godric is of the opinion that no magical creature can ever be fully tamed, but close to it. Close enough to come when Godric calls, at least, and that’s all that’s required.

Perhaps it’s because they sense his need, but the first one to step out of the trees is the lead mare, tall and lean like a living shadow. Godric moves forward to meet her, offering her the hand he cut to call her, and she makes a soft sound of approval as she licks the blood from his skin. Her long, thick black mane is as soft as a brush of cobwebs against his arm, and Godric gently strokes her sleek, bony neck with a faint smile.

“Hello, beauty,” he murmurs. “Do you have time to indulge me in a bit of flying tonight?”

A blank white eye considers him for a moment, and then she dips her head, wide black wings sweeping open and out in clear offer. Godric nods his thanks, tangles his fingers in her mane, and vaults onto her back, settling in behind the wing joints.

“Caithness, Dunnet Head,” he directs. “Quick as you can make it, lovely. We only have to try for two points tonight, but Winnie’s ghost would have my head if I didn’t start in the north. Best way to fuck up a ward-laying is going out of order, she always said.”

The mare whickers like she understands, then turns. Her muscles bunch, and with three long strides she’s airborne, wide wings snapping out and down in a wide sweep that sends them soaring up towards the clouds. Godric takes half a moment to make sure his hood isn’t going to go flying off—he’s reckless, after all, not a fool—and then leans forward over the thestral’s long neck and buries his fingers in her mane.

It’s been years since he last flew on thestral-back, and he’d forgotten how swift they can be. Just past the turrets of the castle and they're already picking up speed, the land blurring beneath them. Godric’s never quite managed to figure out the magic behind it, because there's little logic in the fact that wings can propel a thestral faster than any broom charmed for speed, but he’s grateful nevertheless. Especially now, when he needs to reach a place without leaving traces behind. Apparition is all well and good, but Apparition points aren’t always conveniently placed, and Godric’s never been close enough to Scotland’s northernmost edge to land directly there. Besides, it would take a good bit of walking to get around Hogwarts’s anti-Apparition wards, and he has little time to spare.

A little distantly, he wonders if Helga at least will miss seeing him at dinner, if Rowena will mark his absence. If Salazar will look for him and worry when he doesn’t find him. He’s not certain, and at the moment he can tell himself he doesn’t care much, either.

Meeting the other three was the first time he ever felt accepted, as if he had a place to be wholly himself. However, it’s a double-edged sword, because no one can make him feel more excluded or forgotten, either. And perhaps he’s being overdramatic, not giving the others a fair chance, but Godric has spent the last fifty years without any of them. He wants them around, he loves them, he feels broken without them, but he doesn’t _need_ them.

An empty life is still a life, after all.

Taking a short, sharp breath, Godric pushes the thought out of his mind. Wind whips his cloak around him, bells the sleeves of his coat, but he simply murmurs a Warming Charm and leans lower over the thestral’s bony neck. Instead of worrying, he fixes his attention on the diagram he’s been building in his mind. It’s not entirely as he remembers any of the spells being, more bits and pieces of the several watcher’s spells he once knew strung together, but he’s certain it will work.

The stones he’ll lay at Dunnet Head will be the main anchor, and he’ll work his way around clockwise from there, setting three beacons and then the eastern anchor. The rest will have to wait for another night, because the distance is simply too great to cover before dawn breaks, even with a thestral’s help. And while Godric isn’t exactly opposed to skipping out on a day of classes where the only thing he’ll likely learn is just how far he can push his boredom before it actually kills him, Rowena will string him up from the Astronomy Tower by his _toes_ for it. She’s always been touchy about neglecting academics.

Despite himself, Godric wonders what will happen when they’ve finished their task. Will they try to stay together, ignoring the tensions, or will they go their separate ways again, lost to each other for another endless stretch of time?

But—

But Helga seems fine, now that she’s had a day to adjust. He remembers the way she let Rowena help her up last night, how their hands lingered. How they looked at each other at breakfast, how close together they stood. Helga's always been more forgiving than Godric, and apparently Rowena’s desire to part ways didn’t mean she’d lost her desire for Helga in general.

Not the way Salazar’s meant he no longer wanted Godric.

Setting his teeth, Godric forces the—the _sentiment_ down and turns his eyes to the horizon. The moon is rising, barely visible between the tattered edges of the clouds, but its light is just enough to make out the land passing below. Villages and larger towns, streaking by as the thestral soars. In the distance he can see a glitter of light, the end of the clouds with the ocean beyond, and barely a moment later they're sweeping out into open air. The angle of the mare’s wings changes, giving Godric just enough warning to grip the sleek sides hard with his knees before she descends, alighting carefully on the grass and trotting forward a few steps before stopping.

“Such a swift, beautiful girl,” Godric murmurs, stroking her neck and then siding off her back. She turns to nudge at him, head tipped with interest, and Godric chuckles softly. “Yeah, stay, please. I’ve a few more stops I need to make, and you're my best bet, you clever beauty.”

As if pleased with the praise, the thestral shakes herself, resettles her wings, and wanders off to paw idly at what looks suspiciously like a doxy nest a short distance away.

Taking that to mean she’s decided to remain, Godric turns his attention to the land around them. The lighthouse just north is too visible, and likely has too many visitors, to leave warding rune-stones there. Even hidden under a Notice-Me-Not Charm, it’s too much of a risk. This point, east of the lighthouse and entirely empty of anything to attract tourists beyond the view, is a better bet, even if it’s not the exact northernmost point. Godric crouches down, placing a hand on the earth and murmuring a Summoning Charm. Dirt shifts beneath his fingers, sliding away as a stone the size of a loaf of bread pushes to the surface, and as soon as most of it’s visible, Godric releases the magic so he doesn’t accidentally tear up the bedrock.

The tap of one finger clears off any clinging soil, and then Godric traces out the necessary runes, laying them into the stone in a shimmer of white light. It’s a complex chain of symbols, crowned with the rune for defense, and as Godric sets the spell he sharpens its edges with a combination of determination and intent, shaping it into something that’s offensive instead of just passive. He’s always tended towards the former rather than the latter, which makes things far easier.

As the last flicker of light fades from the air, Godric sits back on his heels and surveys his work for one moment before hiding it under an impenetrable layer of concealment spells. This particular configuration’s not something he’s used before, but…it will hold. Of that he’s certain.

Now just three more anchors and twelve more beacons before it will work.

Rising to his feet, he dusts the earth off his hands and turns back to the thestral, who’s happily munching doxy eggs. She sees the movement and immediately lifts her head, shifting her wings so he can mount.

“Clever girl,” Godric murmurs, smiling, then twists his fingers in her mane and vaults onto her back. “All right. A quarter of the way to Lowestoft Ness, if you’d be so kind. I know it’s a good distance, but we can finish another night if you can't—whoa!”

Apparently taking offense at the implication, the thestral launches herself into the air with a single hard leap and sends them soaring into the darkness.

 

 

The Great Hall is full of whispers, and Rowena barely has to step through the doors before she knows what they're about.

One quick glance at the Gryffindor table as she takes her place shows the Potter boy sitting stiff-backed in his seat, face pale with what is clearly fury, hands shaking to the point where he can barely hold his utensils. His two friends are equally grim, and scattered faces around the table echo the expression: that pair of redheaded twins Godric latched onto so quickly, a round-faced boy with brown hair and worried eyes—most of the fifth years, now that she looks, though there are several exceptions.

At Rowena’s own table, most seem to be either whispering or listening in—all but a blonde fourth year, attention sharp beneath the cover of her dreamy gaze. She’s picking idly at her potatoes, but there's a certain slant to her mouth that says she disagrees with what the majority are saying.

It is…disheartening, to see her fears coming true so clearly. As soon as the Ministry started to decry Potter’s warning of Voldemort’s return, Rowena had been concerned just what it would mean for the boy himself, and Hogwarts as a whole. Nothing good, especially with Dolores Umbridge here to add fuel to the fire.

The entire situation sets a firecracker off directly under her fury, though. Fifty years, half a century of being separated from her best friends, and for what? For _this_? If this goes on much longer, all the sacrifices she and Salazar made will be for _nothing_ , and though Rowena can most certainly be selfless when she must, it’s difficult. Much more difficult for her, it sometimes seems, than for Helga and Godric, who put others before themselves so damned easily.

Who gave in, far sooner than Rowena had ever predicted, when she and Salazar gave voice to those damning words. Who left, hurt and angry—who are _still_ hurt and angry, though they hide it well. For all of Godric’s jesting, for all of Helga's cheer, there's still a wary distance kept between them, a wall that neither Rowena nor Salazar can scale. Their own fault, even if circumstance did force their hand.

If that ends up being for naught, Rowena’s not entirely certain what she’ll do, but she does know that it will involve large amounts of collateral damage, and possibly Fudge’s head on a pike. Doubtless Godric has one she can borrow; where sharp, pointy things are concerned, he’d put any dragon’s hoarding habits to shame.

Finding her appetite all but gone, Rowena plucks an apple off the edge of a platter and picks up her knife, amusing herself by trying to get the peel off in a single piece. Several students are watching her curiously, but Rowena ignores them, having already filled her quota of mindless conversation for the day. Helga would no doubt chide her for rudeness, but this is Rowena’s own House, and she’s sure that the majority understand. After all, why concentrate on other people when books or even one’s own contemplations can be so much more interesting?

When someone pointedly clears their throat behind her, she stiffens, then rolls her eyes and looks around, expecting offensively red hair, merry green eyes, and yet another harebrained scheme that will leave the world looking at them sideways. Not that she would object, per se, but it’s been a very long day and her mood is already—

But it’s not Godric standing there. It’s Salazar.

Arching a brow at him, Rowena straightens in her seat and lifts her chin. “Abandoned your little court, Solomon?” she asks blandly, and takes petty satisfaction in the way pale grey eyes narrow.

“Only for the moment, Roberta,” he parries coolly. “A test of their loyalty, as it were.”

Rowena smirks, because by this time next week Salazar is going to be running the entire House, there's no question. “Such trust. So? What do you want? I'm busy.”

An assessing glance takes in the coil of peel on her plate, the knife jabbed deep into the pale flesh of her apple. “Yes, I can see that. But if you can spare any time in your schedule, I’d like to speak to you about…certain matters.”

There's only one possible thing he could want to discuss, and Rowena’s mouth pulls into a tight grimace at the thought. It kills the rest of her appetite, and she pushes her plate away, rising to her feet. “Fine. Where—Heidi. Is something wrong?”

The blonde hurries another few steps to hover at Salazar’s shoulder, expression pinched with worry. Rowena meets concerned brown eyes and feels her heart turn over in her chest. That’s Helga's alarmed expression, and never means anything good.

Twisting her fingers in the sleeve of her robe, Helga takes a quick glance around the Great Hall, then drags in a breath, squares her shoulders, and says carefully, “Have either of you seen Gideon anywhere?”

Rowena freezes, and ice trickles though her veins. She hasn’t. Moreover, Godric hasn’t come to see _her_ , and given that his last class was with the Umbridge woman, Rowena had expected him to come and share what he’d found as soon as the bell rang.

And, now that she thinks back, she didn’t see him at lunch, either.

It is never, ever a good sign when Godric’s been out of sight for more than four hours.

“We had Double Potions before lunch,” Salazar says, carefully deliberate. “He was there. Afterwards…”

“Ancient Runes,” Rowena finishes with certainty, because she was the one to set their schedules. “Was he there?”

“Susan says he was.” Helga tips her head at the red-haired Hufflepuff back at her table, but the worry isn’t easing from her face.

Rowena doubts very strongly that Godric would have attended those classes just to skip Defense. For all his lighthearted nature, he’s incredibly serious when it comes to his duties, and he would see gathering information on the Ministry employee as just that. With a low huff, Rowena rubs at her brow and mutters, “Why do I get the distinct impression that he did something stupid?”

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Salazar flinch. Just slightly, but it’s enough of a tell to know that _he_ did something stupid. And with Salazar, his ‘something stupid’ pretty much always concerns Godric.

“Solomon,” she growls, low and warning.

Even more effectively, Helga turns to the Slytherin, brown eyes going wide in a pleading expression. Rowena has never been able to tell if it’s calculated or not, but either way it’s absolutely devastating to one’s willpower, and has been known to make hardened mercenaries quail. (And Godric, but then Godric’s always been weak to Helga.)

“Solomon?” she echoes softly. “Did you have a fight?”

That wouldn’t have been Rowena’s first guess—Salazar looks entirely calm, and she’s used to him fuming when he and Godric argue—but Helga's better at emotions than she is. They're such messy variables, and Rowena’s never managed to predict them with any sort of accuracy.

“We didn’t,” Salazar says flatly, but the faintest flicker of his eyes gives away the half-truth. Rowena’s own eyes narrow, a silent warning, and he glares back, then turns sharply on his heel and strides for the door. Rowena follows without missing a beat, Helga right in step with her, because that wasn’t Salazar failing to have the last word; that was more along the lines of “you won't lower me to the point of arguing in front of strangers, so let’s finish this elsewhere.”

A quick glance at Helga shows that worry has shifted into determination, edged with the faintest hint of righteous indignation, and if it were anyone but Salazar on the receiving end of that expression, Rowena might pity them. Helga's terrifyingly good at inspiring guilt, and even Salazar can't stand against it. If he really did do something to upset Godric to the point that the Gryffindor voluntarily skipped both meals and bonding time with his House, Helga will doubtless get it out of him inside of ten minutes, if she even needs that long.

Head still high, Salazar strides into an empty classroom, then turn to face them as Rowena closes and locks the door with a flick of her wand. “We didn’t argue,” he bites out. “I went down to the Chamber this morning to see what had become of the basilisk. From what I can tell, Godric was offended that I didn’t tell him beforehand or drag him along.”

Rowena blinks, considering this. It seems perfectly reasonable to her not to bring Godric down there; the man has never been fond of cramped spaces, and while it’s not quite claustrophobia, it’s the next best thing. Leaving him out simply spared him an uncomfortable hour in a place he has no fondness for, and—

Helga mutters something under her breath, tugs hard on her curls, and then says pointedly, “You're an idiot, Salazar.”

Salazar blinks at her, and Rowena can feel the same expression on her own face. Helga is almost always kindly spoken, and to break that habit…

“I'm sorry?” Salazar says flatly, and despite the inflection, it’s more a statement of offense than any sort of question.

Helga sets her hands on her hips and glares at him. “He wasn’t _offended_ , Salazar, he was _hurt_. I don’t know what in the world the two of you have been doing for the last fifty years, but was it enough to make you forget _everything_ about dealing with someone who loves you?”

That’s enough to make Rowena flinch, and Salazar step back. There's fury in Helga's eyes, all wrapped up in an old ache, but she doesn’t raise her voice, just shakes her head and looks away from the two of them.

“It isn’t the time for this,” she whispers. “I'm sure Godric is fine. He probably just—wanted to be somewhere else at the moment. I’ll see you in the morning.”

With a whirl of blonde curls, she sweeps past Rowena and out the door, leaving the other two stunned silent behind her.

It takes a long moment, but Rowena finally forces her limbs back to life, lifting a hand and raking it through her hair. “This is…not going entirely as I had hoped,” she admits on a sigh, and can't think of the last time she gave voice to such an understatement.

Salazar snorts softly, but his mouth is pulled into an unhappy slant as he leans against a desk. “What, you were expecting them to throw themselves back into our arms with cries of forgiveness? We knew what we were doing when we conceived this plan, and we knew what their reactions would be. Don’t start regretting things now.”

“Now?” Rowena snaps, whirling on him. “ _Now_? I've regretted this from the start, Salazar! If there was _any_ better way to keep them out of danger, don’t you think I’d have taken it?”

He looks away. “You think that I'm any different? But you tread a thin line already, Rowena. Can you truly look at Helga, stay close the way you have been, and not tell her the truth? Because I know that I can't do that with Godric. He’ll see through me in an instant, pull the secrets right out of my heart, and once he knows everything he’ll throw himself headlong into a situation to which we have no solution. I won't risk him, and I won't risk Helga meeting that fate either. Will you?”

“Fifty years we’ve been doing this, and what is there to show for it?” Rowena counters acidly. “Ten years, twenty, I could have accepted. But the situation has just gotten worse. In the beginning, we were the only ones affected, and I was fine with that. But then Helga—” She cuts herself off, hands clenching into fists, and turns away. Just the memory of the terror she felt then is enough to shake her, to make her waver and falter and want to retch. Because Helga is beautiful and kind and _good_ , better than anyone in all the world, and the mere thought of losing her is enough to shatter something deep inside Rowena. Hard enough to face mortality when they’d only had a single lifetime together; now they’ve had ten times that, and Rowena can't imagine an existence without Helga near her, or at least still present in the world.

A hand on her arm, an arm around her shoulders, and Salazar sighs into her hair as he pulls her into a comforting half-hug. They're neither of them much for displays of affection with any but Helga or Godric, but fifty years is enough to make even people who hold themselves apart long for the comfort of a hug once in a while. Rowena grips him in return, presses her face into his shoulder and…regrets.

There's been a lot of time for doing so since they lost what was dearest to them, but if their years apart have taught Rowena anything, it’s that there's always space for more.

 

 

Harry wakes to wind lashing at the tower, rain beating against the windowpanes, and the sound of it is just enough to rouse him fully. It’s dark, with that certain lingering hush that speaks of it still being the middle of the night, but now that he’s awake any drowsiness has been banished entirely. With a short sigh, he sits up in bed, sliding his glasses back into place and squinting through the gloom of the dorm. Snores or heavy breaths sound from all the other beds except the newest, and Harry casts a look at Gideon Griffiths’ bed to find the hangings drawn tightly, and from the lack of noise likely reinforced with a Silencing Charm.

Giving up on sleep, he slides out of bed and then hesitates, debating whether to go down to the common room or try something a little more daring. He’s missed Hogwarts, after all—the summer dragged endlessly—and there's something thrilling about wandering at night that makes the castle feel like his alone.

Decided, he opens his trunk and tugs out the familiar piece of aged parchment and his Invisibility Cloak, then pulls on his shoes and slips down the stairs. A tap of his wand and a murmured, “I solemnly swear that I'm up to no good,” sends lines of ink sweeping across the surface, and Harry does a quick check to be sure that the corridor outside is clear before he pushes the portrait open and climbs out. The Fat Lady is asleep, leaning against her frame, and doesn’t stir as he lets the portrait swing gently back into place.

At this time of the night, the halls are completely empty, and Harry only gives the Marauder’s Map occasional glances as he wanders, avoiding the moving staircases in favor of hushed stone corridors.

He doesn’t want to think. Doesn’t want to dwell on Umbridge or the Ministry or Cedric or Voldemort. Hogwarts has never been entirely peaceful for him, but it’s always held equal parts danger and wonder. There is absolutely no part of him that could ever leave it behind, not for anything. Even knowing about Voldemort, about his parents, even with all the injustices and petty cruelties and things he hates, Harry would pick this life over one as a Muggle without hesitation.

At the foot of the stairs leading up to the Astronomy Tower, Harry pauses, doing another quick check to be sure he’s not interrupting an Astronomy class. He isn’t—Professor Sinistra is in her quarters on the other side of the school—but…there's a name at the top.

Just one name, and when Harry's mind finally comprehends what he’s seeing his breath catches sharply in his throat.

 _Godric Gryffindor_ , the dot is labeled, and if Harry learned one thing from the fiascoes of his third and fourth years, it’s that the Marauder’s Map is never wrong.

He hesitates, wondering how it’s possible. A ghost, maybe? But in the three years Harry's owned the map he’s never seen that particular name appear before. Still, in his time here Harry's encountered stones that grant immortality, more magical creatures than he’d care to count, possessed diaries, and so many other magical things that…well. Maybe the appearance of one of Hogwarts’s founders is just—magic.

Harry hopes desperately that’s the explanation. It would be nice to have something that’s wholly good happen, for a change.

He takes the stairs quickly, and doesn’t pause when he gets to the top. Instead, he throws open the door with a little more force than he had intended, and his quick step through turns into a stumble. As soon as he recovers his balance, though, he raises his head, scanning the open area, and—

There. At the very edge, a tall figure in a cloak is seated on the low crenellations, and when Harry stops to stare the person rises to their feet. The rain is still lashing, and there's only the faint illumination from the torches in the stairwell, but what light there is catches on crimson hair, dances in the facets of the ruby set into pommel of the man’s sword, and it’s enough.

“Godric Gryffindor,” Harry says, and can't tell whether he sounds awed or disbelieving. “You're Godric Gryffindor.”

It’s like learning he’s a wizard all over again, like his first step into Diagon Alley with Hagrid beside him. The sheer wonder of it, of meeting this man who built Hogwarts, who founded this very castle—Harry can hardly wrap his mind around it.

A warm chuckle reaches him over the pounding rain, and the man lifts a hand. No words, no motions beyond that, but suddenly the space around them is swept clear of water, and the rain is striking an invisible dome a meter above their heads, rolling down the sides of it as though it’s falling on glass. There's no sound, though, and the sudden hush is nearly startling.

“That’s an odd thing for you to know,” the man says, lowering himself back to the wall. It’s still too dark to see his face, but his voice is kind, friendly, and he waves Harry forward like they're old friends.

Harry crosses half the space between them before he realizes what he’s doing, and then pauses warily. The man doesn’t move, though, just stays where he is, and Harry cautiously closes the distance, taking a seat on the stone well out of grabbing range.

“How?” he blurts, before he can think better of it. “You're not—I've never seen a ghost do magic, so—what are you?”

The man—Godric—laughs. “You’ve been a wizard for several years already, Harry Potter. Haven’t you learned yet? There's always another wonder out there. What's the line? Ah, yes: ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than is dreamt of in your philosophy’.”

Harry blinks, and can't decide whether he’s more surprised that a wizard from the tenth century knows his name, or that he’s quoting Shakespeare. “I—what?”

The faint torchlight catches on the curve of Godric’s smile. “I'm not a ghost. Not exactly. But I've been lingering a long time. Long enough to pick up a few things, and to hear about another impressive addition to my House.”

Harry flushes, even as guilt stabs at him. Ducking his head, he looks down at his shoes, and blurts, “I—the Sorting Hat was going to put me in Slytherin.”

The last person he told was Dumbledore, right after his encounter with the Philosopher’s Stone. And as Dumbledore did then, Godric barely pauses before he says, oddly gentle, “Then you asked it to put you in Gryffindor?”

Still not quite able to look at him, Harry manages a nod.

There's a moment of silence, and then a sudden dart of silvery light catches Harry's eye. He lifts his head in time to see Godric draw his sword a few inches out of its scabbard, head tilted as if he’s studying the blade. “And yet you're the one responsible for this being imbued with basilisk venom,” the wizard says thoughtfully. “I hardly think anyone who wasn’t brave and noble would be able to call my sword to them, let alone use it to face down a basilisk at twelve.” He must catch the widening of Harry's eyes, because he chuckles as he re-sheathes his sword. “Oh, yes, I heard about that. The Sorting Hat has some interesting tales to tell.”

“I had to save Ginny,” Harry says, and doesn’t know why it’s defensive. “Voldemort was—he was killing her, and trying to kill all the Muggleborns in the school.”

“It was very brave of you,” Godric says simply. “Thank you. You upheld the Founders’ ideals, and made the school a safe place again. All four of us are in your debt for that.”

Harry pauses, trying to wrap his mind around that statement. “Debt?” he repeats weakly, and then, “ _Four_? You mean—Slytherin is still around, too?”

Godric laughs at him, though kindly rather than cruelly. “You thought I would linger alone?” he asks, as though the very idea of it is ridiculous. “We’ve been together since we were children ourselves, Harry. I’d hardly go on existing without them.”

“Even Slytherin?” Harry protests. “He left! He hated Muggleborns! He was the one who hid the basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets!”

A soft sigh, and Godric leans back, tilting his head to look up at the rain striking the air above them. “Yes. And going by the same beliefs, you're a madman and a liar, spreading rumors of a Dark Lord’s return just to bring attention to yourself.”

Harry bristles, surging back to his feet with a curse on his tongue, and then—stops. Thinks. Realizes just what it is Godric is actually saying, snaps his mouth shut, and sits back down.

With another chuckle, Godric shakes his head. “Exactly. People have twisted your story so much in just two months. Imagine if they had a thousand years. Salazar feared what Muggles were capable of, the threat they posed to all of us. Yes, we argued, and yes, he left, but history seems to have forgotten that he came back. He always did.”

The tone of his voice is…fond. It makes Harry remember the Sorting Hat’s song at the beginning of the year, the way it claimed that there’d never been better friends than Slytherin and Gryffindor. And apparently that still holds true, even after all this time.

“You like him,” he concludes, still not entirely able to believe it.

“I love him,” Godric corrects, and then forges on before Harry can even begin to process that. “The world we came from—it was at war, Harry. Peace never lasted more than a few months, and there were so many people dying, magical and Muggle alike. Helga, Rowena, Salazar, and I all shared a dream of building a haven away from all of the killing. Hogwarts was our paradise. All of us would have done _anything_ to keep it safe. Salazar’s methods were misguided, but his heart was in the right place, and the rest of us knew that.”

There's a long moment of silence as Harry digests that, and then Godric sighs. One hand comes up to wrap around the hilt of his sword, and he says softly, “People have spent ten centuries seeing Salazar as the villain, Harry, but I killed many more people than he ever did.”

Harry jerks back, startled, and opens his mouth. Then he closes it again, catching the faint hint of Godric’s wry smile as he does.

“Why?” he asks, bewildered. “Even hating Muggles, and with the basilisk—”

“The basilisk was for Hogwarts’s protection, and Salazar was a scholar, the son of a nobleman. He didn’t even see his first battle until he was almost thirty. I grew up in a company of mercenaries. The first time I killed a man, I was twelve, and I didn’t leave Falcon Company until I was thirty-six. I don’t think anyone living here and now can understand just what it was like, but you could whittle my entire existence down to a sword and a wand that anyone with enough gold could buy and use as they saw fit.” A soft, rough laugh, unamused, and Godric shakes his head. “And you know? It was Salazar who pulled me out of that existence, who showed me a different way. It’s my life. I don’t regret it. But it does make me laugh when people call Salazar evil, and hold me up as some paragon of virtue in comparison.”

The bitterness in that last sentence is practically choking, and Harry winces. “I wondered,” he manages after a moment. “Why you carried a sword, I mean. It…doesn’t seem like something a lot of wizards would use. I guess it makes more sense now.”

“Mm.” Godric shifts, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Never felt it was sporting, using a wand against Muggles, even if they were trying to kill. Me. And besides, doesn’t matter how much the wizarding world looks down on weapons beside a wand—a pointy stick can kill you just as dead as a spell.” A pause, and then he adds gently, “I've heard what everyone is saying about you, and about Voldemort. I'm not going to tell you to keep your temper—you're a bit too much like me for that, I think. But Dark Lords fall. There hasn’t been one yet who succeeded. They're dangerous and mad and deadly, but they're only men. They can be killed.”

Harry takes a breath, another, and braces himself. Then he says, very quietly, “Sometime, I—I feel like it has to be up to me, to defeat him. I've survived him four times already, and—”

“And in ten years, or twenty, I would put this sword in your hand, wish you luck, and send you off,” Godric cuts in, and his tone is entirely pragmatic. “But you're fifteen. Believe me, I'd be just about the last to call you a child, but there's no reason to throw you at Voldemort when there are other wizards, with decades more experience, who would be more than willing to get rid of him if given the chance. Voldemort has hurt you, targeted you specifically, and I know that makes it personal, but you shouldn’t focus on that. Give them the rope and the gossips will hang themselves eventually. After all, Voldemort will hardly keep to the shadows forever. What he’s doing right now—it’s all mind games, Harry. He’s building his power, waiting for you to crack. So don’t let him win.”

It feels like—not relief, not exactly. But…maybe vindication, or perhaps a small victory. One of the greatest wizards of all time believes him, without even the smallest hesitation. Not just Dumbledore, but Godric Gryffindor himself. And—it makes sense, what he’s said, sounds very much like what Voldemort would do. Harry's never let him claim a full victory before, and he’s not about to start now. If just keeping his head down, keeping his cool, is enough, then Harry will apply himself to that and see what it accomplishes.

“Are you—will you be here again?” Harry blurts out as Godric rises.

There's a pause, a feeling of consideration, and then the wizard inclines his head. “It’s a nice view,” he says mildly. “It’d be nice to see it again in better weather. I trust you’ll be able to tell when I appear?”

Harry nods, somehow vastly relieved that this isn’t just a passing occurrence, a moment that will soon be lost, like those he spent in front of the Mirror of Erised.

It’s not comparable to seeing his family, but after a bare hour of conversation Harry feels the best he has since that night in the graveyard.

“Thanks, sir,” he manages to get out.

The tall figure half-turns, and even though he can't see the man’s expression, Harry gets the feeling that he’s smiling. “Call me Godric,” he offers lightly. “And thank _you_ , Harry Potter, for all you’ve done for Hogwarts. I'm lucky to have such a wizard in my House.”

A flick of his hand brings the rain thundering down again, and Harry flinches from the drops on instinct. When he looks up again, he’s alone on the rooftop, with only a lighter heart to show that Godric was there at all.


	7. VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is flirting, jealousy, more idiot boys, the beginnings of a relationship mended, and sword-fights in the hallways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm upping the rating, in case that turns anyone off. Nothing terrible, but Helga and Rowena got a little away from me here. On that note, my headcanon is the uniforms from the later movies, so that’s what everyone’s wearing. (Another headcanon: as Salazar had the Chamber of Secrets, each of the other Founders had a special place. Helga's was the Room of Requirement.)
> 
> Also, to everyone reading, you're absolutely fantastic. The enthusiasm some of you have for this story just blows my mind, honestly.

Three hours of sleep is exactly enough to highlight just how little rest Godric has actually gotten, and it’s only with the greatest reluctance that he drags himself out of bed when he hears the others fifth-years stirring. Yawning widely and not bothering to hide it, he staggers into the bathroom, takes a very brief, very cold shower, and staggers back out feeling vaguely more human.

Still, he doesn’t regret his actions last night, even though he knows it was foolish to reveal himself—or half of himself—to Harry so easily. But the boy already knew who he was, had somehow found him despite that entire wing of the castle being empty, and Godric was hardly about to turn him away. He’d had a very interesting conversation with his old hat when he’d gone to try and return his sword—futilely, it seems, but Godric wasn’t really expecting otherwise—and it had quite a lot to say on the subject of Harry Potter.

Godric is used to the wizarding world blowing a handful of deeds far out of proportion, either positively or negatively, and he’d rather expected the same to be true with Harry. He regrets that assumption now, because last night, he’d truly looked at Harry for the first time. Looked, watched, and seen the lines of care and stress and pain that aged his face. And given what everyone is saying about the events of last June—

Harry saw a boy, a friend, die right in front of him. Saw him die because he got caught in the crossfire of a madman who had set his sights on Harry, and while that hardly makes it Harry's fault, Godric knows very well the feeling of responsibility that comes with such things. Godric has lost enough people dear to him that he understands what Harry is feeling right now, how he’s suffering. Guilt and grief are all twisted up in his eyes, edged with rage and hurt and horror, and though he’s hiding it, he’s not doing it well.

It makes Godric angry, to think that so many people could look at him and simply write it off as a teenager’s temper. Surely, surely there's someone who cares. A parent or a guardian or some sort of adult close enough to see past the façade.

But instead, Harry's been left to seek comfort from what might as well be a _ghost_.

There are likely reasons. Godric knows there are for practically everything, and blind accusations only come from not having all the pieces to the puzzle. But still. Still. For all his words to Harry, the boy is still just that—a boy. A brave, hardy one, who has endured more than most aged men, but still young. Too young to be the target of a madman.

Maybe the four of them are here to save their school, and defeating Voldemort is simply a piece of that. But now Godric has another reason, another aim. He was already planning to take the Dark Lord down, but now he’s going to do it for Harry, not just Hogwarts.

It’s a flaw in his character, that Godric gets attached too quickly. It’s hurt him before, left him open to betrayals and manipulation, but he doesn’t think he would change it even if he could. It’s what won him his friendships with Salazar, Helga, and Rowena, after all, what lets him look at another person and see the possibility of a connection, rather than a simple stranger. He loves easily and fiercely, with all of his heart, and he’s protective by nature. An hour of conversation on the rooftop and Harry, who was already his by virtue of being in his House, is now someone for whom Godric would readily lay down his life.

Keeping Harry from finding out that Gideon Griffiths and Godric Gryffindor are actually one and the same will likely pose some difficulty, especially since Godric has little idea how the boy managed to discover his presence on the Astronomy Tower to begin with, but Godric is reasonably confident that he can manage it. The mere thought of Rowena’s reaction to finding out part of their cover has been blown is incentive enough, after all. He’ll have to be careful, but…

But it’s not going to stop him from going back to the Tower tonight. A little lost sleep is a small enough price to pay for helping someone who could very easily be a friend. Godric’s rather good at operating without much rest, and Harry's situation makes him…curious. Just a little.

A lion, unlike a simple housecat, isn’t one to be killed indulging its curiosity. And if it just so happens that in doing so Godric stumbles over something he can improve or change, well. That’s a good deed done for one of his House, and nothing more than what Harry is due. For defeating the basilisk alone, the Founders owe him. It was one of their safeguards, their defense that Voldemort twisted into a weapon and used to kill students, and Harry was the one to deal with it at risk to himself.

Godric pays his debts. That’s one of them.

“Ah, the charming Mister Griffiths!” a cheery voice cries, and Godric blinks out of his thoughts to find himself suddenly sandwiched between redheaded twins. On his left, Fred smirks at him, while George is beaming.

“Good…morning?” Godric ventures after a second, caught a little flatfooted by such enthusiasm before his first cup of coffee.

The twins treat him to a synchronized shake of their heads. “Ah, a clear lack of sleep,” George says knowingly. “You know, Griffiths, the devastating lack of your presence at lunch yesterday—”

“—and at dinner,” Fred cuts in.

“And afterwards,” George agrees. “Well, it makes a mind wonder, doesn’t it?”

“After all, what could a handsome, personable gentleman such as yourself—”

“—with clearly excellent taste in companions—”

“—who professes a lack of equally charming girlfriend—”

“—or boyfriend—”

“—be doing _all night_ that would remove him from the presence of his hallowed House?”

Godric takes a beat to wrap his still-fuzzy head around that in-stereo barrage, blinks, and then can't help but laugh. He shifts a little, linking his elbows with the twins’, and allows them to steer him into the Great Hall. “You want me to spoil my aura of mystery?” he protests. “I couldn’t.”

The one on the left shakes his head sadly. “Resistance, rudeness, and secrets, all after such a promising start to our friendship,” Fred laments. “How heartbreaking, Fred.”

“Indeed, George,” George agrees.

Lifting an incredulous brow, Godric glances between them. “Should I just refer to you as Gred and Forge from here on out, then?” he asks amusedly.

The grins he gets in return are blindingly delighted, and the twins don’t let go even as they deposit him in a seat at the Gryffindor table.

“I think this one’s a keeper,” George says cheerfully. “What say you, Gred?”

“Oh, definitely, Forge. Now, Griffiths, care to spill? How’d you know?”

Godric winks at Fred and blows George a kiss. “A gentleman never kisses and tells, Messieurs Weasley.”

George laughs brightly. “Trying to drive a wedge between brothers now, Griffiths? That’s low. I think I approve.”

“I know I do,” Fred chimes in, ignoring the slightly wary looks they're garnering. “Very good, Griffiths.”

Godric makes sure to flutter his lashes at both of them equally. “If you're going to duel for my hand at dawn, give me a day’s notice. I want time to write about it in my diary. And call me Gideon, please—you using my last name makes me feel like Roberta is looming over my shoulder and ready to pounce.”

Fred chuckles, dropping several sausages onto Godric’s plate. “You know, any other man would be overjoyed to have a lovely thing like that on his tail. I still think you're doing something wrong, Gideon.”

Godric tugs his plate out of Fred’s reach, only to have George, on his other side, cheerfully start adding mash. He gives them both narrow looks, and then rolls his eyes when they just smile innocently. “Yeah, well, I might have more luck with Roberta if Heidi wasn’t so much more her type.”

“Did I hear my name?” Helga asks brightly, sliding into the open seat on Fred’s left. She doesn’t even pause, but pulls a plate towards herself, seizes a jar of her favorite apricot jelly, and starts making toast. “Where were you, Gideon? I haven’t seen you since breakfast yesterday.”

“He seems to be keeping it a secret,” George says amusedly, watching the Hufflepuff with slightly raised brows. “Couldn’t get it out of him, though we’ve been trying.”

“For being such a chatterbox, he’s got a mouth like a trap at the most inconvenient times,” Helga agrees. “Everything in and nothing out.” Then she pauses. “Oh. That sounded vaguely dirty, didn’t it? I'm sorry. And Heidi, by the way.”

Fred looks entirely too delighted. “Fred Weasley. Pleasure to meet you, Heidi.”

“And George,” the other twin chimes in, leaning around Godric to offer a wave. “So Gideon wasn’t with you? And here I thought he had good taste.”

Helga beams at him. “Oh, such flattery. And Gideon does have good taste. After all, he is astonishingly fond of—”

“I feel like I should cut this conversation off here,” Godric interrupts hastily. “Heidi, please stop gossiping.”

“But, Gideon!” That’s a definite pout on Helga's face, though Godric can see the spark of warm humor in her eyes. “These are your new friends, aren’t they? I think that telling them about that time in New York will only benefit—”

“ _Stop helping_ ,” Godric hisses, feeling his ears flush bright red.

Helga laughs at him, because she’s awful and terrible and a horrible friend, and goes back to buttering her bread. “Well, if we’re changing subjects, I feel I should inform you that Roberta wants to talk to you.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” Godric mutters, sinking lower in his seat and ignoring the gimlet glare threatening to pierce right through the side of his head. He very carefully doesn’t look in the direction of the Ravenclaw table.

Helga, being awful and terrible and a horrible friend, has absolutely no compunctions about twisting around in her seat and waving cheerfully across the room, and Godric groans pathetically. He lets his head drop to the tabletop, just barely missing his plate, and closes his eyes in resignation. “Have I mentioned recently that I hate you?”

“The day before yesterday, on the train,” Helga answers promptly. “Twice.”

“Come on, Gideon, chin up,” George prompts, nudging him in the ribs and tapping the edge of his plate. “Since you missed meals yesterday, and I doubt you’ve managed to find the kitchens yet—”

“Corridor under the Great Hall, fruit bowl painting, tickle the pear,” Godric and Helga say together, and then trade smiles. Obediently, Godric picks up his fork and adds, “Our parents study Hogwarts and the Founders. Believe me, we’ve picked up a few things.”

Fred looks interested. “Secret passages and all that? Wicked. We had to learn things the hard way.”

“Always better,” Rowena cuts in, stalking up to loom over Godric. He raises a brow and she narrows her eyes, then fixes George with a pointed stare.

The twins both give her identical wide-eyed, innocent looks, and don’t budge.

With a huff, Rowena turns on her heel, sweeps around to the other side of the table, draws her wand, and flicks it sharply. The pair of sixth years sitting there yelp as they go sliding to the side, plates and all, and Rowena sinks into the vacated seat with all the poise of a queen. She pins steely eyes on Godric again, though her smile is perfectly pleasant, and then says, “I'm surprised to see the castle is still standing after you were out of sight for so long, Gideon. Or is that only because you were elsewhere?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Godric retorts.

“I really would,” she counters coolly. “Do tell.”

“Would you believe we spirited him away?” George suggests, and his expression is friendly but his eyes are full of mischief.

Rowena looks at them, looks at Godric, and then snorts. “Not in the least. You're not Gideon's type.”

Godric splutters. “They could be! How would you know? Keeping an eye on my dating habits now, Roberta?”

“I think I take offense at that,” George agrees, grinning. “I’ll have you know we’re practically everyone’s type.”

“Twin fantasies don’t count,” Rowena informs him sweetly.

Fred gasps and mimes clutching at a mortal wound, but before he can say anything Salazar slides into the free seat next to Rowena, carrying an entire pot of tea and a very large teacup. “I take it we’re congregating?” he asks absently, pouring himself a cup and then reaching for the nearest jug of milk. He’s either unaware of or ignoring the startled, slightly wary stares directed at him by the surrounding Gryffindors. At the time of the day, Godric’s honestly not sure which. Salazar is anything but a morning person.

“Well,” Helga answers brightly. “Since Gideon seems prone to disappearing, I thought we might as well corner him when he couldn’t get away.”

“Very cunning,” Salazar approves, and then proceeds to—as far as Godric can tell—attempt to drown himself in his tea.

It takes effort not to smile like a smitten fool, but Godric manages it, if only barely.

Across the table, Rowena clears her throat sharply, and when Godric narrows his eyes at her she says impatiently, “I'm still waiting for that explanation, Gideon.”

Godric gives her an eye-roll instead. “Leave it, Roberta. I was just wandering.”

The look she gives him tells him this is far from forgotten, but Godric ignores it. He’s most definitely not ready to give Rowena even the vaguest hints as to his reckless behavior. Without proof, she’ll automatically assume he did something stupid, but she won't have any concrete evidence. Godric can live with that.

Further down the table, a tureen of porridge trembles slightly.

Godric freezes, then gives Rowena a dangerous look. “Are you _sure_?” he asks warningly. “This is really the road you want to go down?”

Salazar blinks at him, then at Rowena, and out of a sense of self-preservation trained by long exposure to both of them promptly slides four feet to the right.

Rowena’s answering smile is a thing of pure innocence. “I'm sure I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean, Gideon.”

Godric twitches a finger, and a jug of juice slides closer.

“No,” Helga says sharply, setting her fork down with a thump. “Stop it, both of you.”

“But—” they protest together.

“No, I don’t care who started it. It is _too early_.”

Godric subsides with a huff, directing his scowl at Rowena. “I don’t know why any of us bother putting up with you. You're a menace.”

Rowena scoffs, starting to rise. “If you need me, I’ll be in the kitchens. I feel a sudden burning urge to count the pots and kettles.”

Salazar surfaces from his tea just long enough to roll his eyes, grab her by the elbow, and tug her back down into her seat. “Oh, do give it a rest. Roberta, stop being dramatic. It doesn’t suit you.”

“Excuse you, everything suits me,” Rowena says crisply, but starts cutting her sausages into precise pieces nevertheless. “Gideon, don’t think this is over.”

With a low groan, Godric lists sideways, burying his face in George’s shoulder. “I wish I didn’t have any friends,” he laments.

“There, there.” George pats the top of his head, not even trying to hide his amusement. “You're pretty enough—I’d be willing to comfort you, if you're ready to fall into my arms.”

Salazar’s teapot boils over with a hiss that makes everyone else jump. Face as blank as a marble statue’s, he pulls out his wand, taps the pot twice to vanish it, and rises smoothly to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me,” he says cordially, “I should get to class.” Picking up his bag, he turns and strides out of the Hall, robes snapping around him.

Helga makes a soft, disgruntled noise, and almost automatically, Rowena reaches across the table and pats her hand. “Well,” the Ravenclaw murmurs, raising a brow at Godric. “I can't even say green isn’t his color, can I?”

Godric’s mouth tightens and he looks away. If Salazar is going to be a bastard about this—

A breath, another, and he forces himself to roll his eyes and say lightly, “Overdramatic bastard. See you at lunch.”

“The library,” Rowena counters mercilessly, though there's a trace of sympathy in her midnight-blue eyes. “If you have even half as much homework as I do, Gideon, I expect to see you there right after the bell. I'm absolutely certain you didn’t get any of it done last night.”

Because that’s entirely true, Godric surrenders with all the good grace he can muster before heading for the Charms classroom as quickly as he can. It is, thankfully, not a class he shares with any of the others, and he slides into an open seat with a sigh of relief.

Damn Salazar anyway, he thinks broodingly. The bastard made it clear enough how he felt fifty years ago, but now he gets jealous? Ridiculous, stupid, inconsiderate—

(He carefully ignores the faint spark of hope that kindles in his chest.)

 

 

Perhaps it’s the memory of Godric’s furious, desolate expression at breakfast. Maybe it’s the culmination of fifty years of guilt and loneliness and deeply buried terror. Possibly it’s a momentary madness.

Either way, after Potions, Rowena squares her shoulders, lifts her head, and finds Helga.

She knows what Salazar would say, what kind of fit he’d throw if he knew. But then, Salazar’s always been more pragmatic than she has. For all her intelligence and ability to see the bigger picture, Rowena’s emotions get in the way and always have. The entire tragic mess with Helena is more than proof enough of that.

Rowena Ravenclaw died of heartbreak, they say. And…Rowena can't entirely prove they're wrong. Salazar said dramatics don’t suit her, and perhaps they don’t, but she’s always been prone to them anyway. With an ounce less to live for, with even a little less motivation in the form of wide brown eyes and golden curls, she might have given in after her daughter’s betrayal. Given in and let herself waste away, because for all her intellect, for all her knowledge, she couldn’t even see her Helena’s heart. Couldn’t see the jealousy, the hurt, the anger brewing beneath the surface.

It had hurt. Hurt so much, rent her so deeply, and it had taken years to recover.

But she had, she’d survived, and if there was any reason at all it was Helga.

The last fifty years have been an agony. She hated every last endless, creeping second, every inch of distance that separated her from the woman who first cracked the ice around her high, frozen tower. She and Salazar had their reasons, their motives, but that hardly helped ease the hurt. Worsened it, even, because if Helga had _known_ —

But Helga hadn’t known. Helga had stared at her when she spoke those icy, distant words, stared at her as though begging for it to be an ill-timed jest, a joke in the very poorest of taste. And Rowena had forced herself to meet Helga's eyes, to hold her gaze and watch something inside her break slowly, devastatingly.

Salazar had looked away, she knows. Salazar had spared himself that last moment of ruin, the bleak hopelessness that grew in Godric’s eyes, and Rowena will never not think him a coward for it.

She spares a brief, guilt-stricken thought for Godric, likely sitting in the library right now. Salazar will be there too, if she knows anything at all of his habits, and Rowena can't quite decide which of them to pity more. Because Salazar is hurt, even knowing he doesn’t have the right to be, and that will make his tongue far sharper than it would be otherwise. But from what she saw this morning, Godric is _angry_ , and though she’ll never tell him she’s rarely seen a more fearsome sight than Godric Gryffindor in a temper. For them, for their sakes, he plays at being a kitten, all velvet paws and spirited indignation. In all truth, though, he’s a lion, deadly enough to tear a man to pieces.

Godric’s always made a good show of being harmless—good enough that even Rowena forgets just what he actually is. For all his trappings of civilization, for all his nobility of character, Godric is still the warrior he was born, constantly prepared to face down death with a smile if it’s necessary. More than any of them, Godric lives with the utmost understanding of his own mortality, and for that alone Rowena would call him brave.

If Salazar and Godric do speak, Rowena hopes that Salazar will remember to mind his tongue. Otherwise, her money is on only Godric walking out of the room intact.

She could, conceivably, go and save them from each other. But Rowena has spent so long being selfless, and hating every moment of it. This—this is undeniably selfish, and she knows it.

She also doesn’t give a damn.

The fifth year Hufflepuffs are just leaving Charms, a bright, chattering group with a lovely blonde at their center. The others rotate around Helga, gravitate towards her like she’s a star and they mere chunks of rock, but her smiles turn them into comets blazing with light. She laughs, and the world is easier, kinder, the chains of fate no longer quite so heavy.

There is nothing in Rowena that has ever been able to resist Helga.

She steps through the crowd, and they part around her like water—because of her height, her presence, her unhesitating step, the way her eyes fix themselves on Helga and don’t move, perhaps any and all of those—but Rowena doesn’t waver. Helga looks up at her, and that smile doesn’t quite dim, but…she hesitates. She hesitates, and it hurts like a blade laced with poison driven right through her gut.

“Heidi,” she manages. “Care to take a walk with me?”

Helga's eyes widen faintly, and it’s an impossible sort of relief to realize that she remembers. Not that Rowena had thought she would _forget_ , but—

They still have significance, even after all this time. The first words Rowena ever spoke to her directly, on that night so very long ago—preceded by the wrong name, and that in itself is jarring, but still enough. Still a sign, a message Rowena has no other way to send, though she doubts she would even if she could.

And then— 

And then, like dawn, like sunlight, warmth fills Helga's eyes. She reaches out, offering a hand, and Rowena takes it as if she’s drowning and Helga her last link to shore. As if the ground is giving way beneath her, and Helga is safety and home and everything that was ever dear. She is, she always has been, and Rowena clasps the warm, callused fingers in hers with far more desperation than is seemly, but for once appearances can go hang.

Helga is smiling at her, and that’s all she’s ever needed.

“On the grounds?” Helga asks almost gently, as if Rowena is the one who needs kindness here. “Or in the castle?”

“Your Room?” Rowena suggests, and perhaps it isn’t the cleverest idea she’s ever had, but the Room of Requirement is private enough for whatever this conversation turns into. Rowena is still braced for a shouting match, at the very least. If Helga hexes her, she won't be all the surprised, because there are still secrets that aren’t entirely hers to give, and Merlin knows Salazar won't grant her permission to speak them yet. Not until she bounces his stubborn skull off a few hard surfaces, and maybe not even then.

Not that it will stop Rowena from trying. She’s sick of subterfuge, of the hidden hurt in Helga's eyes whenever the other woman so much as glances at her. No, she won't be spilling all of their secrets, but…

But she’s missed Helga, and even after only two days back in her presence, Rowena’s once-fearsome will has crumbled. She’s not leaving Helga again. _Never_ again, if she has any say at all in it, and she’ll see to it that she does. Salazar can be a noble, stubborn bastard is he wants, and cling to his plans, but this is Rowena throwing down her sword. This is her white flag raised high.

Saving Helga is still everything to her, but if it comes at the expense of all that’s between them—well.

Rowena is a genius, and incurably selfish. She’ll find a third option.

“You're shaking,” Helga whispers, stepping close, her fingers tightening on Rowena’s. Belatedly, Rowena realizes that she is, that there's a fine tremor running through her from head to toe, and gives a choked, fractured laugh.

“So I am,” she agrees, and Helga's expression softens further. Very gently, she tugs Rowena down the hall, around the corner, and through a section of wall that turns intangible when she whispers the correct password. The seventh floor is on the other side, the corridor empty, and Rowena has never been more grateful for the castle’s many shortcuts. As it is, she can't make herself do anything but cling to Helga like a child. It’s pathetic, demeaning, laughable—

Rowena doesn’t give a damn about that, either.

The Room is the same as it’s always been, warm and welcoming—just like Helga. Full of light, for them, with a soft whisper of breeze that seems to come from nowhere, long curtains shifting in the wind.  The window they frame looks out on a garden full of herbs and roses, the image of a real one long since buried, once outside the window of their summer quarters. There's a table with two overstuffed chairs, a handful of long, low bookshelves framing a canopied bed. Like stepping back a thousand years into the past, and Rowena closes her eyes in the face of it.

She doesn’t miss those days, not really. Things were dangerous and fraught and deadly, and wizards and witches were no more likely to survive than Muggles.

But for all of that, it was once their home. For all of that, it’s where they started, and she’ll never allow herself to forget it.

A touch to her cheek, brushing a lock of raven hair from her face, and when she raises her head Helga is watching her, warm but also faintly wary. She doesn’t speak, but the question is written across her face, etched into the very air around her.

Rowena manages a smile, because she’ll always have one to spare for Helga, no matter the situation. “I missed you,” she says, and it’s the greatest understatement that’s ever been or ever will be. “On the platform, seeing you there—it was like all the color came back into my world, Helga.”

Helga's lips part, cheeks flushing prettily, and there's something like joy kindling in her eyes. “But you left,” she says, not an accusation—a plea for Rowena to help her understand, instead, and that’s enough to make Rowena weak with relief.

“There was a reason,” she promises, low and intent, desperate beyond words for Helga to believe that, if nothing else. “An impossibly important reason, or I would have never so much as considered it. I swear to you, Helga, nothing in me wanted to leave, and I hurt every minute you were gone. I can't—my secrets are all wrapped up with Salazar, and I gave him my word I wouldn’t break his confidence, but—”

Warm lips on hers steal the words mid-sentence. There are arms around her neck, a body pressed right up against hers, and Rowena gasps in wordless thanks, burying her fingers in corkscrew curls and returning the kiss with everything she has. Her knees give way and she stumbles back, shoulders thumping against the door, but Helga follows her right down to the floor without ever breaking away, so Rowena doesn’t care one whit. She drags Helga up against her, all but into her lap, and Helga responds eagerly, pushing herself up against Rowena, one hand curved just under her ear, the other at her waist.

A break, barely long enough for each to take a breath, and then Rowena loses her patience and pulls Helga back to her, wrapping a firm arm around her back and glorying in the feel of soft curves pressing in all the right places. She slides their mouths together, scrapes her teeth against full lips and takes advantage of Helga's soundless gasp to press in, flicking her tongue across Helga's to tease. As ever, Helga answers without hesitation, tasting her in return, clever tongue twisting against Rowena’s and leaving her dizzy with breathlessness.

“You didn’t even look at me,” Helga whispers, right up against her mouth. “On the platform, you didn’t—I felt like I was _dying_ , Rowena.”

Rowena’s breath hitches, a sob caught in her throat, and her arm tightens on her lover. “I couldn’t,” she admits, and her voice breaks halfway through. “Oh, Helga—if I looked at you even a moment longer, I don’t think I could have lived with how I hated myself. For separating us, for what I did to you, for _hurting_ you—”

Another kiss, but this time Rowena couldn’t say which of them started it. Lips sliding, mouths hungry and desperate, and sheer mindless _need_ has one of Rowena’s hands dropping, cupping one full breast. Helga's breathing stutters, catches, and she leans forward encouragingly, fingers sliding around the back of Rowena’s neck. Rowena brushes her thumb over cloth, just able to feel the lace of Helga's bra beneath, and _wants_.

“Missed you,” she whispers, because she could say it a thousand times, a million, but it would never be enough. Never _begin_ to be enough.

“Missed you too,” Helga whispers back, like it’s a secret. “But I knew—I knew you’d come back someday. I knew it, and you did.”

“Always,” Rowena promises, and kisses her again. There's a hand beneath her sweater, tugging her shirt from the waistband of her skirt, and when it finally touches skin she can't help the soft moan that slips out of her mouth. Helga laughs a little, breathless and delighted, and dips her head to kiss Rowena’s throat. Rowena tips her head back, letting her, and squeezes gently. It gets her a muffles gasp, and then Helga is sitting back, shoving her robes off and tugging her cardigan up over her head.

“Off,” she orders. “Please, Rowena, just—”

Well. Rowena’s never been one to refuse that tone of voice, and she’s not about to start now. She shrugs her own robes off, then her jumper, uncaring of wrinkles or anything else. Before she can do more, nimble fingers are on the buttons of her shirt, and Rowena hurries to return the favor, though four buttons down she gets distracted by her first glimpse of pale blue lace. Her fingers falter, brushing the tops of the cups, and Helga breathes out a shaky little sigh, pushing Rowena’s shirt open with unsteady hands. Her fingers trace up Rowena’s torso, finding the handful of old scars with the ease of memorization, but when she gets a little higher she makes a noise of quiet but intense frustration.

Almost despite herself, Rowena laughs at that. “Oh, stop it, it’s not like this was what I had in mind when I asked to talk.”

Helga's pout is devastating seen this close. “A sports bra? Really, Rowena, you might as well be wearing a chastity belt.”

“And you're so much better?” Rowena retorts, sliding a fingertip over there line where lace and flesh meet.

“Mm,” Helga hums, as smug as a cat. “Front closure.”

Being a logical creature, Rowena would normally take that as an invitation. Unfortunately, they only have a few minutes left until the bell rings, and the plans Rowena’s mind is currently spinning require several uninterrupted hours to do them justice. With a low, disgusted groan, she lets her head fall forward to rest against Helga's chest, and has to close her eyes when her breath makes gooseflesh rise and a small tremor ripple through the other woman.

“ _Bullocks_ ,” she mutters.  

Helga laughs, warm and bright and absolutely delighted, and slides her fingers through Rowena’s long hair. “You’ve got me in your lap, just about half-naked, and that’s all you can say?” she asks, though she’s clearly amused.

Rowena waves a frustrated hand. “What can I say? You're enough to make me monosyllabic, my love. And there are a hundred thousand things I want to do right now, which I've organized by ascending difficulty and projected length of time required, but…”

“Class,” Helga finishes for her, tone regretful. “I don’t suppose there's any chance I can convince you to skip, just this once?”

“I don’t think I've ever wanted anything more,” Rowena admits, entirely truthfully. “But it’s only the second day, and we can't draw that much attention to ourselves. I get the feeling we’ve already drawn enough as it is.”

“Mm. Godric’s not exactly subtle, is he?” Helga laughs, sitting back on Rowena’s thighs and reluctantly starting to do up her shirt again.

“That he’s not,” Rowena agrees with a smile, thinking of yesterday morning in the Great Hall. It was fun, not that she’ll ever tell Godric that. His ego’s inflated enough as it is.

Maybe…

Helga makes a soft sound that’s equal parts amusement and dismay. “Oh, no. Whatever you're thinking, Rowena, don’t.”

Rowena presses her face into Helga's curls to hide the grin she knows is three parts wicked and one part wry. “Me?” she says, faux-startled, and it takes work to keep her tone completely innocent. “Helga my love, what could you ever be implying?”

“You're each as bad as the other,” Helga exclaims, fondly exasperated. “If this is a continuation of this morning…”

“It’s not.” Seeing the skeptical stare aimed at her, Rowena raises both hands. “On my honor, Helga! You said it was too early, and I respect that, as will Godric. We’ll hold off on any food fights in the Great Hall until later in the year.”

“Oh, Merlin,” Helga mutters, but she leans in for another kiss regardless. “Sometimes I don’t know why I bother. I swear, you and Godric should have been born as siblings.”

Redoing her buttons, Rowena lifts her nose in the air. “As if I’d ever lower myself to sharing blood with that walking disaster,” she sniffs, and Helga rolls her eyes even as she laughs. Feeling entirely pleased with herself, Rowena retrieves her jumper, makes a face at the sad, scrunched state of it, and shakes it out with a silent and wandless charm. It falls back into perfect lines, and she tugs it on, smoothing it carefully. When she looks up, Helga is watching her, earth-brown eyes bright and intent, and it’s enough to make her heart stutter.

“Soon,” she promises softly, and gets a brilliant smile in return.

“Soon,” Helga agrees, then finishes dressing and hops to her feet. She offers Rowena her hands, and Rowena takes them, letting Helga pull her up. “Shall we stop by the kitchens? I'm sure the house elves will be happy to give us a few pastries.”

“Let’s,” Rowena agrees, and tucks her arm through Helga's as they make for the door. The hall outside is empty, and that makes it safe enough for her to cast a sideways glance at her partner and ask quietly, “Am I forgiven?” She thinks she has been, but…some things need to be said aloud to become true.

Helga looks at her for a long moment, serious and solemn. Then she takes a breath and says, “I—mostly. I love you, Rowena, always, but…let me learn to believe that you're actually here. It won't—it won't take forever, and I’ll still be right here, but just…give me that.”

“Anything,” Rowena agrees without hesitation, and that’s true as well. What Helga's giving her is far more than she expected, but then, that’s generally the case with Helga, isn’t it?

Seeing as the bell will ring soon, Rowena steers them towards Helga's next class once they’ve eaten, but makes sure to keep their pace lazy. Even without talking, just…being close is everything she’s missed for the last fifty years, and she’s not about to give it up. And—

A flash of red, the same shade as a ruby in the firelight, and Rowena lifts her head like a hound finally scenting a fox. Godric’s just coming down the staircase, expression set in a truly ferocious scowl, his stride more of a stalk than anything. His face is pale with fury, and Rowena spares half a thought to whether she’ll have to go scrape bits of Salazar off a floor somewhere, even as she turns to give Helga her prettiest smile.

“Do you have your knitting needles on you, by any chance?” she asks lightly.

Helga gives her a wary look, but digs into the pocket of her robe—clearly magically expanded, given the way her arm sinks in up to the elbow—and comes up with the thin, wooden sticks. “Give them back in one piece, please,” she requests, but doesn’t protest when Rowena draws her wand and transfigures both with a sharp flick.

“Don’t worry,” she answers, already pulling away and heading for Godric. “It’s not them you should be concerned about.” Taking a breath, she raises her voice. “Oi, Gryffindor!”

Several heads snap up at that, but Rowena keeps her eyes on one in particular, even as she chucks the transfigured needle right at his skull.

Given Godric’s reflexes, it’s no surprise he catches it, even as he turns to look at her in surprise. Then his gaze shifts to the thing in his hand, and the startled expression gives way to a bloody-edged grin.

“Living dangerously now, are we, Ravenclaw?” he asks, with that particular note of mocking cheer  that always makes Rowena want to hex him silly on principle. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

Rowena flips the wooden sword around in her hand and doesn’t let her stride falter. “I told you I wouldn’t forget about this morning. I’ll take my dues out of your hide, thanks.” There's no real way she can beat him without throwing in some creatively underhanded cheating, and even then she’d probably still lay odds on Godric, but that’s not the point. Godric is suffering, angry, and nothing ever distracts him quite like whacking at things with pointy objects. If she gives him an outlet now, he won't indulge in any wanton property damage before he cools down.

(It is also just slightly possible that Rowena would cheerfully set fire to whatever makes Godric unhappy and then dance in the ashes, but that’s yet another thing she’ll never tell him to his face.

Somehow, she gets the feeling he knows regardless. Knows, and entirely returns the sentiment.)

Godric laughs, wild and free and wicked. He drops his bag, showily flips the matching wooden sword into his right hand, and gives Rowena a mocking bow. Her eyes narrow, because using his non-dominant hand is an entirely unasked-for handicap, and even if she can't beat him fairly she can still make him _sweat_. Setting her jaw, she rearranges her priorities for this duel.

First: get his mind off things.

Second: push him until he switches hands.

Third: win. By any means necessary.

The thud of wood as they crash together isn’t nearly as satisfying as the scream of steel, but it will do. Godric is grinning, the darkness has faded from his eyes, and Rowena will count that alone as all the victory she needs.

“Oi, Ravenclaw, your shirt’s untucked. Been getting frisky, have we? Should I see if I can find that old chastity spell again?”

All right. New priority: kill him _a lot_.


	8. VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is specific people being bastards, plotting Slytherins, some hurt, some comfort, and a dragon in the hills.

It takes Salazar several frustratingly long minutes to untangle himself from the intricate twists of spellwork holding him captive. Really, he should have expected it; the tether on Godric’s temper has always been far closer to a quick-burning fuse, and Salazar had been dropping lit matches on it just being in the other man’s presence, let alone insulting him as he just did. However, it’s been entire centuries since even a fair portion of Godric’s wrath was turned on him, and Salazar has grown complacent, unwary. How long has it been, after all, since Godric used his strength for anything but the protection of their little quartet?

Not, Salazar reminds himself with a grimace, carefully unweaving a particularly tricky knot of curses, that this was anything even close to Godric’s full strength. He could have done far worse, and Salazar should count himself lucky to have gotten away with nothing more than a barrage of mostly-harmless spells.

With a soft shimmer of silvery light, the color-changing curse that would have left him with zebra-striped hair dissolves, and Salazar casts a wary sensing spell around himself. It flares green everywhere except for around his feet, and he breathes a silent sigh of relief. Only one left, then. However, that one…

Godric really is a bastard sometimes.

Salazar gauges the distance to the floor, grimaces, and then resigns himself. Well. At least a thousand years of failing to say no when Godric dragged him into sparring has taught him how to fall well.

A flick of his wand and the last spell unravels. There's a gut-churning wrench as gravity reasserts itself, but Salazar twists, trying not to tense his muscles, and rolls with the impact. It hurts, bruises likely flaring up all along his side, but once Salazar has finished cursing Godric to the deepest pits and insulting every one of his ancestors, he reluctantly concludes that he should be grateful the Gryffindor didn’t string him up any higher than a few feet above the ground, even if it was upside-down. He’s still a bastard, though.

Thankfully, this section of the library is entirely deserted, so there's no one to witness the complete shattering of Salazar’s dignity—Godric has that much mercy, at least, though it’s actually far more likely that he didn’t even take it into consideration. After all, Godric himself has never worried about such things, and has a tendency to laugh whenever Salazar does.

Deciding that the remainder of his homework can wait for this evening, as he certainly has no social engagements, Salazar quickly repacks his bag and heads for the grounds. The trek across the lawn to Care of Magical Creatures won't take the remainder of the lunch hour, but better to get a head start, especially given how treacherous the footing with be from all the rain.

Especially given that in a handful of minutes, he will have to face Godric again, without the luxury of losing his own chilly temper the way he just did.

Mouth tightening, Salazar shoves away all thought of the bruise-bright hurt that rose in Godric’s eyes at his words, just as sharp as it was fifty years ago. He doesn’t have the luxury to think of such things, not if he wishes to get anything done. Not if he wishes to succeed, and he must, because there's simply no other option. Salazar refuses to let all of this be for nothing, and he’s willing to do practically anything to triumph. Not for himself alone—that would inspire a bare fraction of this horrible, seething desperation.

But for Godric?

Oh, but there is absolutely nothing he would not do for Godric.

He would destroy him, even, as long as there was some hope that Godric would be able to rebuild himself on the other side.

Salazar doesn’t try to lie to himself with pretty words, or convince himself that if Godric did eventually leave half a century ago it meant he wanted to. He knows better. Knows the breadth and depth and fury of Godric’s love, the way Godric has always looked at him, and him alone. Godric flirts like he breathes, but his eyes—those have never strayed far from Salazar, and in that at least nothing has changed. And it means _everything_ , even when Salazar tells himself it should mean nothing.

He can't afford to waver or turn back, can't let his feet falter on this path. All of his attention must be turned to this matter, and he can't spare any for reining in Godric’s more reckless tendencies.

Therefore, to save Godric’s life, to save Helga who is almost as rash, they had to be removed from the picture. Nothing less than a complete divorce, a breaking of their friendships and their relationships. And he’d done it. He’d distanced himself, stepped away, stepped back, and when he’d finally spoken the words, Godric had not even had a chance to dig in his heels. It had already been done and over with.

Without a doubt it was the emptiest victory Salazar has ever achieved.

Halfway down the stairs to the ground floor, a curious sound reaches him, and Salazar pauses, frowning as he tries to make sense of it. _Thunk_ , then _thunk_ again, followed by a rapid _thunkthunkthunkwhack_ , and a sharp snarl that sounds…

Almost like one of Rowena’s screams of rage, now that he thinks of it.

Oh, they wouldn’t.

Picking up his pace, Salazar takes the steps two at a time, then pushes through the crowd of students at the foot of it. After the first hard shove they scramble out of his way of their own accord, and he strides towards the front, unable to believe either would been this foolish. A dance during breakfast, crossing House lines, is one thing; to make a spectacle of themselves, like this, putting skills they most definitely shouldn’t have on clear display—

Of course they would, he thinks in resignation, rubbing at the headache forming between his eyes. Rowena is logical, but she also thinks quickly enough that she’s able to work out ramifications and consequences in an instant, and plan her way out of mischief before she even gets into it. And Godric…

Well. Godric distracting himself with something physical is hardly new, and Salazar likely should have expected that, too.

Beyond that, Rowena has always been oddly indulgent of their youngest, even when they’re acting as if they're at each other’s throats. From an outside view, they seem to dance on the knife’s edge of being best friends and mortal enemies, but in truth Rowena adores Godric and he worships her right back. So this entire production is likely their way of comforting each other, and reaffirming their friendship.

Salazar would be spared so much grief if they could just give each other hugs like normal people.

“Solomon,” Helga says brightly, ducking around a knot of Gryffindors to smile at him. “You're looking well.”

 _Translation: how surprising to see you un-cursed after setting Godric off like that,_ Salazar thinks, perhaps a little uncharitably, but simply inclines his head. “I do remember how to disarm a handful of spells. All at once, even,” he points out dryly, and it’s true. Among the four of them, Rowena has a formidable breadth of knowledge regarding practically anything, and Helga has an impossibly deft hand with charms and their creation. At the same time, Godric has absolute mastery of whatever he cares to learn and the ability to combine and alter spells on the fly, and Salazar has the depth of understanding behind both magic and potions and can unravel any spell he comes across.

Well, any but one, and that’s the one at the root of this whole miserable affair.

Helga gives him a shrewd glance, though her smile never wavers. “He only used a handful? That’s a relief. We wouldn’t want to cause any more of a stir.”

Pointedly, Salazar raises a cool brow at the pair of idiots dueling up and down the hallway. Helga giggles and glances over as well, just in time to see Godric sweep in under Rowena’s guard and, in a move that’s ninety percent showy exaggeration—sure to drive Rowena straight to blind fury—whirl around and tap the hilt of his wooden sword against her sternum.

“Ten out of eleven?” the Gryffindor offers facetiously, fluttering his lashes obnoxiously at her even as he takes a few prudent steps back.

Rowena gives another strangled snarl and swings like she’s trying to behead him. With a bright laugh, Godric parries, then skips out of the way of a thrust that nearly skewers him, blocks the next slash, and drives her back with three determined strikes.

“How is this better than cursing each other in the library?” Salazar demands of the laughing Hufflepuff, who just waves him off, trying to smother her giggles with one hand. Salazar rolls his eyes at her, which only makes things worse. Sighing, he turns his attention back to the match, and frowns a little. Godric is, as ever, an impressive swordsman, and for all that it isn’t Rowena’s main discipline—she always preferred her wand for protection, or a bow if she had to pass as a Muggle—she’s well able to keep up with him. It helps that they’ve been sparring for a thousand years, since Salazar loathes most physical exertion with a vengeance and Helga doesn’t care for swordplay. Practically as soon as Rowena and Godric became friends, though, he was teaching her everything he could about it, and Rowena drank it in eagerly, much to her family’s horror.

Then again, that could have had more to do with her suddenly spending all her time in the company of a madcap mercenary boy—and the havoc they raised together—than it did a girl learning to fence.

(“You fight like my cousin Marian!” Godric had called, bright and mocking but also full of laughter, as Salazar glared up at him from his undignified sprawl on the ground. Nineteen, taller and more imposing than most, able to lay curses and brew potions that no one in the entirety of Britain could counter, and Salazar hadn’t been used to being second best in anything, let alone feeling…inept. Inept and clumsy and _unskilled_ in front of a boy of barely thirteen, who hardly came up to his chest.

He hadn’t deigned to answer that particular taunt, more occupied cataloguing the beautiful new array of bruises Godric had just given him as he pulled himself back to his feet. But he hadn’t had to: from his right, there came a sharp noise that was all fury and offense, and a young woman in a midnight blue dress had swept out in front of him, bristling with indignation.

“You!” she had hissed, while Salazar just blinked at her back, caught off guard by the sudden interruption. “You little _bastard_ , spouting that complete tripe like you’ve any right to it! I bet if you ever faced a woman in battle, they’d knock you right on your sorry arse!”

Against Salazar’s expectations, Godric hadn’t simply laughed it off. Instead, he’d tipped his head and considered the woman, grass-green eyes thoughtful. Then, after a long moment, he’d asked, “Can you fight?”

The woman hadn’t faltered, though she had tensed, as though bracing herself for mockery. “No, but—”

“Would you like to learn?”

She’d stopped, stepped back, and Salazar had caught his first glimpse of her face. Raven hair caught up in a complex knot instead of covered by a wimple, dark blue eyes in an aristocratic, impossibly lovely face, Scottish burr to her words—the only daughter of the Ravenclaw family, already rumored to be the cleverest by far in a house known for their intelligence. He’d opened his mouth to diffuse the situation, direct Godric’s attention elsewhere, and—

“Yes,” Rowena Ravenclaw had answered, slightly wary but still eager, and her eyes had narrowed. “Your cousin Marian…?”

Godric had beamed then, wide and angelic with an ocean’s worth of mischief beneath. “Mari? Oh, she’s six. Winnie just taught her how to hold a sword. I thought Salazar might benefit from the comparison.”

Rowena had laughed, and Godric had grinned—the first time they ever took amusement from Salazar’s misfortune, but hardly the last.

It depends on the day, how much he regrets being the cause of them meeting. Generally speaking, though, it’s always rather a lot.)

With a war-cry to shame an Amazon, Rowena throws herself forward, dropping her sword with a clatter in favor of tackling Godric bodily to the stone, and Salazar can't restrain a wince as they go down with a crash. When they land, though, they're both laughing, which is probably a good sign.

Really, Salazar is surrounded by lunatics.

The bell rings as Godric climbs to his feet, offering Rowena a hand. She grabs his wrist, locking them together, and lets him pull her up without complaint.

“Well done, milady,” Godric offers with a grin. “Your shirt’s still untucked, though.”

With a sharp huff, Rowena slaps him in the side of the head, very deliberately does nothing to neaten her appearance, and instead sweeps over to return the two swords—transfigured back into knitting needles—to Helga. The two girls share a smile, and Rowena doesn’t spare Salazar so much as a glace as they walk away arm in arm.

Salazar resists the urge to wince. That was a slight, clear and deliberate, and he can't tell whether it was for their argument yesterday or his earlier one with Godric—odds are good it’s both, honestly, and this likely won't be the last time Rowena expresses her displeasure.

Godric isn’t looking at him, either, though Salazar knows without a doubt that the Gryffindor is aware of his presence. Instead, he hurries a few paces to catch up with the trio of students from the train. The two boys look wide-eyed, and the girl is too, even if she’s hiding it better. There are several enthusiastic questions that set Godric to laughing, and he ignores Salazar completely as he leads them out the main doors.

It shouldn’t hurt. It shouldn’t make Salazar want to cast a curse after him, or grab him by the shoulder and _force_ him to look, see green eyes that put new grass to shame—

It shouldn’t, but it does.

“Silvius,” an even voice says, and Salazar glances over to see Blaise approaching, the elder Greengrass girl behind him. Surprisingly, Draco Malfoy is following only a few paces after her, looking for all the world like he’d rather be absolutely anywhere else. Salazar arches a brow at Blaise, who just smiles slyly, though Salazar isn’t worried about this particular Slytherin making a play for the top. He has an exceedingly good grasp of where the power lies in any given situation, especially for being only fifteen, and would much rather be the power behind the throne than the actual king.

“Zabini,” he returns politely, then inclines his head to Daphne and casts a sharp look at Malfoy, who scowls faintly but nods regardless.

 _Ah_ , Salazar thinks as he hides a smirk, not needing any more clues to understand the situation. The boy is trying to gather information on him, likely at his father’s request. Doubtless he’s found out that the other Slytherins can tell which direction the balance of power is tipping, and therefore won't say anything that could be construed as taking sides to either Salazar or Malfoy until the matter is resolved.

Slytherins are good at being neutral when it benefits them.

Feeling entirely amused, though he’ll never show it, Salazar inclines his head to Malfoy as well, and when the blond falls into step with him doesn’t bother shifting away.

“You seem to be settling in well,” Malfoy offers, if grudgingly, as they start the trek down towards the treeline. Ahead of them, Godric and his three new friends are tromping along happily, all grinning at something, and the Weasley boy is gesturing expansively. Godric tips his head back and laughs, red hair glowing even in the dim, dreary day, mobile face alight. He’s beautiful, and Salazar aches at the mere sight of him. But…

Not enough to change his mind. Not enough to undermine his determination. Not enough to make the choice that will put Godric in danger.

“—used to live?” Malfoy is asking in an imperious tone when Salazar finally manages to look away. The blond boy’s expression is pinched, as though even asking is painful, and Salazar is amused all over again at his terrible acting skills. Subterfuge seems to be a lost art with most Slytherins now, and it’s a true shame. If Salazar can teach them anything before he leaves, it will be that.

Or, alternately, how to think for themselves, because that too seems to be severely lacking. A Slytherin should never be anyone’s mindless lackey.

Settling himself back into the conversation, he answers blandly, “Everywhere, more or less. Our parents were attempting to understand the origins of Hogwarts’s Founders, and we went where they did. Our last stop before they sent us here was the south of Wales.”

“And you're a—”

“Pureblood,” Salazar confirms, already bored with this particular line of questioning. Malfoy has potential, any Slytherin can see that—it’s why they defer to him in the first place. But he’s unpolished, so used to wielding his family’s power that he’s never tried to use his own, never tried to be more than what he’s been taught, and it’s rather disappointing. “The Silvius family can trace their lineage back to the founding of Rome. I’ll thank you not to question my bloodline.”

A flicker of triumph, like Malfoy has won the answer rather than had it given to him, and Salazar shakes his head a little, even as Blaise gives a soft laugh. Malfoy bristles a little, eyes narrowing, and opens his mouth. Before he can say anything, Salazar, on a whim, offers, “Tell me, if you were going to insult Potter—” because one can hardly enter the school without hearing of their infamous rivalry “—how would you do it?”

The boy looks absolutely bewildered. “What?”

“Potter,” Salazar repeats, not quite patiently. “If you were insulting him, what would you say? I've been playing this game far longer than you have, and I'm certain, no matter your answer, I will have a better way.”

It’s a far more flagrant challenge than Salazar would normally resort to, but subtlety just whistles as it flies over Malfoy’s head without impacting, so blatant seems to be the only way to go. Judging by Daphne’s smirk and Blaise’s raised brows, they see the reason behind it, and it amuses them just as much as it does Salazar.

(Godric would accuse him of picking favorites. It’s absolutely true.)

Malfoy’s expression is wary, but he answers, if with a faint sneer, “I’d insult the oaf—Hagrid, who usually teaches this class. Tell Scar-Head that he’s probably gotten himself hurt gallivanting off somewhere. I think they're _friends_.”

Well, at least he’s decent at picking out weak spots, Salazar thinks with some despair. “And I suppose you’d call him Scar-Head, too,” he mutters, and shakes his head. “Think it over for the rest of the day. Aim for subtlety. Should you come up with something better, there is always tomorrow to use it. I think you could play this game as well as anyone, given practice, but for now, what I said on the train stands. I won't have another Slytherin shaming our House, so you must better yourself.”

Praise, handed out freely, is uncommon for him—all but unheard of—but Malfoy needs the incentive to cooperate. As it is, he fixes Salazar with a blistering glare and opens his mouth, likely to deliver a scathing rant as to his bloodline and father’s influence. Impatient, Salazar raises a hand to cut him off.

“A true barb, when delivered, leaves the recipient wondering if it was a barb at all. That’s a Slytherin’s greatest weapon—leave you power a mystery, and no one will ever know how to counter you until it’s too late. Won't you learn it? Or does your father’s sway protect you from needing that as well?”

Dishearteningly blatant, again, but at least it makes Malfoy snap his mouth shut as the professor waves them around the long trestle table. As Salazar moves to take a spot, Blaise drifts up on his right, expression absently amused.

“Sharing tips already?” he asks, too low for Professor Grubby-Plank to hear as she starts questioning them on the bowtruckles scattered over the table. “Careful, you might find yourself unseated before long.”

Salazar snorts quietly. “Not for a while yet, I think,” he answers dryly. Catching Malfoy rolling his eyes theatrically at Granger’s eagerly-given answers, he gives Blaise a pointed look, and earns a huff of soft laughter.

Well. Maybe there's hope for some of the Slytherins, at least.

 

 

Harry leaves his first night of Umbridge’s detention with the back of his hand stinging, his heart thudding in his chest, and an empty sort of ringing in his ears. It’s surely past midnight, and by all rights Harry should go straight back to Gryffindor Tower and slip right into bed, since tomorrow is likely to be just as nastily exhausting as today. But—

But his feet take him to the Astronomy Tower instead.

He doesn’t have his Invisibility Cloak, doesn’t have the Marauder’s Map with him, can't even tell if Professor Sinistra is teaching tonight, but he doesn’t care. His mind is stuck on the memory of last night’s brief spot of peace, and he can't resist the draw of the stairs leading up. He takes them quickly, trying to ignore the rawness in his hand, and slips on soundless feet past the classroom and towards the top. The sconces are lit again, though Harry can't tell whether that’s a good sign or not—Godric didn’t seem like a ghost, but does he need light? He’d certainly disappeared quickly enough after their conversation to make it seem as though he’d vanished into thin air.

But the door at the top is ajar, and when Harry pushes it open there's a figure seated on the crenellations again, silver sword at his side. He looks up as Harry stumbles through, and even though it’s too dark to see his face, Harry takes comfort from the warmth of his voice as he says, “Harry, good evening. Still no stars, but at least tonight is—.” He stops, and half a second later he’s on his feet, striding across the tower. Harry tenses automatically at his approach, but Godric only takes his left wrist, lifting it to study his hand.

This close, the details of his face are clearer, if still mostly shadowed—a strong nose, slightly crooked, sharp cheekbones, short hair. He’s not overwhelmingly tall, but still a good bit taller than Harry, with broad shoulders, and his grip is callused.

“I guess you're not a ghost, then,” Harry says before he can think better of it, because the hand on his skin is warm and undeniably real.

There's a startled pause as Godric lifts his head, clearly taken aback, and then he laughs. “No,” he agrees. “As you said last night, ghosts can't do magic. But I can, and if you want, I can heal this.”

He remembers Umbridge’s words, her sly _I don’t seem to have made much of an impression yet. Well, we’ll just have to try again tomorrow evening, won't we?_ He shudders, muscles tensing as he half pulls away, and Godric lets him go without hesitation.

“I—Umbridge said we’d try again tomorrow,” he says, a little helpless, because for all that’s happened here Hogwarts is supposed to be _safe_. Second year felt like this, like a violation of everything he knows to be true, and he can't _stand_ that that evil little toad is making him feel this way again.

A slow breath from the man in front of him, and then Godric offers gently, “If you want, I can leave the mark and just take the pain away. Blood Quills are an old magic, and I'm quite familiar with them.” A sharp shake of his head, and he looks back down the stairs, torchlight catching on ruby-red hair and making it shimmer softly. “What I don’t understand is what gives any teacher the right to use it on _children_.”

That is…a relief, to know that it’s Umbridge’s own little torture implement and not something in every professor’s arsenal. Then the full meaning behind that sentence sinks in, and he looks up sharply. “You know about Umbridge?”

Godric snorts softly, putting a hand on his shoulder to guide him over to the wall. A flick of his fingers and pillows burst into being like some mad sort of flower, blossoming thickly over the stone. The wizard sits down without hesitation, and after a moment Harry joins him, then offers his hand again.

“If you can just…leave the mark,” he says awkwardly. “I—thanks.”

“It’s not a problem, Harry,” Godric says warmly, touching the back of his hand lightly. A wash of coolness spreads from his fingers, leaving tingling relief in its wake, and Harry finally relaxes, feeling his muscles ease. Godric pats his arm soothingly, then adds, “Of course I know about Umbridge. Did you know that the Ministry has several contracts with Hogwarts, limiting their power over the school? They managed to find enough loopholes to place Umbridge here, but magical contracts are a bit trickier than Muggle ones. Breaking even the spirit of them was enough to tell us what had happened, so we came back to see if there was anything we could do.”

That’s quite a lot to wrap his head around, honestly, but just the idea of it is enough to light a glow of vicious satisfaction in Harry's gut. He smiles, entirely content at the idea of Umbridge facing down Godric Gryffindor himself, and then says with complete sincerity, “Thanks. She’s awful.”

Godric chuckles, leaning back against the wall, and tilts his head back to look up at the overcast sky. “Well,” he murmurs philosophically, “there goes any hope of stargazing. Instead…tell me something about yourself, Harry.”

“I’d rather hear about you,” Harry protest. “I'm not interesting, but you're—you're _Godric Gryffindor_.”

That earns him another laugh, this one slightly wry, and then Godric suggests, “A trade, then. Ask me something, and then I’ll ask you. That way we’re both satisfied.”

It sounds fair enough, though Harry is still rather dubious about anything he can come up with equaling the stories of one of the Founders. He nods, and tries to think of a question. It’s not hard, because he’s been thinking about their last encounter all day—especially given the lack of malice from Malfoy this afternoon.

“Your family,” he settles on. “You said—you said you were an orphan.” _Too_ , he almost adds, but that feels uncomfortably like asking for sympathy, or drawing parallels between them, and he doesn’t want to offend.

“Indeed I was,” Godric answers readily. “My parents were both part of Flacon Company as well. I only ever heard stories about my father—he died several months before I was born—but I know that he was a pureblood, and that he was good with a sword. My mother was a half-blood, and the adopted sister of Winnifred, our commander.” Faint light touches on his warm grin. “I don’t remember her, either, but Winnie always said she’d never met anyone better at planning an ambush or ferreting at out secrets. After she died—some sort of sickness, they were never sure exactly what—I was sort of…raised communally. Winnie and her brother Alaric taught me everything, and even if they couldn’t be there as often as I’d have liked, I still loved them.”

Harry thinks of Sirius, because that’s how he feels for the man, despite knowing him for not even two years yet. Maybe that’s what makes him offer, “I've got my godfather. He’s—they think he murdered people, but he didn’t, he was framed.” And it feels _good_ to finally be able to say that aloud, to defend Sirius even if he doesn’t truly need it. “Voldemort—” and that’s another relief that Harry hadn’t ever considered before, that Godric doesn’t even tense at the sound of that name “—had a spy, the first time. One of my parents’ friends. He betrayed them, and when Sirius went after him he framed Sirius. I keep hoping they’ll catch Pettigrew, even though I know they won't, because Sirius offered to let me live with him, and I want that more than anything.”

Thankfully, Godric doesn’t ask about the Dursleys, doesn’t question Harry's current living arrangements. He simply tilts his head a little, and Harry can practically feel the considering eyes on him. “The entirety of the Ministry is completely incompetent,” is what he finally says, and it startles a laugh out of Harry before he even realizes it.

“Yeah,” he agrees, grinning. “That’s the general opinion, I think, ‘specially when it comes to Dark Lords.”

With a sharp snort, Godric shakes his head. “So I'm coming to understand,” he sighs. Then, more thoughtfully, “So, my question then. Favorite subject here?”

“Er…” Normally, he’d answer Defense in a heartbeat, even given the rash of bad teachers they’ve had, but not after Umbridge. He can't. “Care of Magical Creatures?” At the very least, it probably will be when Hagrid comes back.

There's a flicker of teeth in the low light, and Godric rises to his feet in a single, smooth motion. “That was always mine, too,” he agrees cheerfully. “And if you're interested… Can I show you something? It’s not far from the castle, still inside the wards, but I've been meaning to go and I think you’d enjoy it.”

It would probably be smarter to hesitate. After all, he only has the Map’s word that this is actually Godric Gryffindor, and a few hours of peaceful interaction don’t mean he’s not hiding something sinister. The best course of action would be to stand up, head to Dumbledore’s office, and report all of this. It’s definitely not to follow a stranger out of the castle in the middle of the night, to an unknown location, to see something that’s a complete mystery.

But then Harry's never claimed to be particularly smart, has he?

Besides, Godric’s had plenty of chances to do something to him already. He’s got a sword, and he’s apparently very good at wandless magic. In comparison, Harry is fifteen, short, skinny, and a student scraping by with passing grades.

“All right,” he says, before his inner Hermione voice can start screaming loudly enough to change his mind. He clambers to his feet, ready to follow the older wizard down the stairs, but instead Godric leans out over the edge of the tower and gives a low, quavering whistle that carries uncannily over the darkened grounds. Several moments of silence stretch out into a minute, until Harry is wondering if anything was supposed to happen, and then—

Wingbeats. A patch of sky that looks even darker than its surroundings breaking off, and—

As light as a shadow, one of the eerie winged horses that was pulling the carriages settles on the stones, bat wings sweeping out and holding there.

“Oh, my beauty,” Godric croons, taking a step forward to stroke the bony neck and twist his fingers in the long mane. Then he turns, eagerly beckoning Harry closer. “Well?” he asks proudly. “Have you ever seen a lovelier thestral? She’s the alpha mare of the herd in the Forest—well, lead mare, I suppose, thestrals aren’t wolves, but she’s one of the largest and strongest I've ever seen. Fastest, as well, and—”

“You can see them, too?” Harry interrupts, not quite able to believe it.

“Yes?” Godric sounds bemused, and then— “Ah, I’d forgotten. Yes, thestrals are invisible to anyone who hasn’t seen and understood death. A lot of people call them ill omens because if that, but they're just winged horses.” The thestral nudges him sharply with its reptilian head, and he laughs, stroking its side. “Very _clever_ winged horses, sorry, my dear. Anywhere you want to go, just tell them and they can find it, and they’ll get you there far faster than a broom.”

That’s just as much a relief as the spell that eased the pain in his hand; Harry hadn’t quite thought he was going crazy, but the idea was there. Luna hadn’t exactly helped, even though she’d tried in her own way. But now Godric is vaulting onto the thestral’s back, clearly at ease with it, and offering Harry a grin.

“Well?” he asks, and it’s physically impossible for Harry not to rise to the challenge in his tone. He takes the hand Godric offers, letting the other wizard pull Harry up in front of him, and winds the silk-soft mane around his hands. Godric wraps an arm around his waist, grips the mane with his other hand, and orders, “The other side of the lake, just into the hills where the white rocks are, please.”

The thestral tosses its head, as if disappointed in the shortness of the distance, but takes two jolting steps and then launches itself into the air. Massive wings snap open, then down, and even though the creature seems to be putting out barely any effort the water of the Black Lake is already blurring underneath them, the far shore rapidly approaching. Harry laughs before he can help it, startled by the speed and the ease of it, the unexpected plunge, and he hears an answering chuckle over the sound of the wind as Godric leans forward, pointing into the hills ahead of them.

“There,” he calls over the rush of air, and when Harry squints he can just barely make out a tiny spot of pale luminescence. Even as he watches, it grows larger, until he can pick out a stand of squared-off stones grouped around a larger, rounded one with a hole in the center. They're glowing, just faintly, and the light glitters on the wet grass like scattered stars.

With barely a jolt, the thestral alights, and Godric hops off her back, taking a step to the side so Harry can do the same. “You’ll wait?” he asks, and for a moment Harry can't figure out which of them he’s speaking to, until the mare snorts and steps away, but doesn’t leave.

“Very clever,” Godric says again, the smile clear in his voice, then turns away. Harry curiously follows him out of the light, up a narrow path worn into the side of the grassy hill. There's a jut of wide, flat stones ahead, the curve of the hillside hiding it from every angle but line of sight from the path, and on it, a strange, lumpy shape is arranged.

A murmured word brings a ball of light flaring to life above Godric’s head, and casts long rays over the stone. Then he raises his voice and calls, “Gwenhwyfar!”

A sudden surge of brilliance, as if the light is striking a mound of iridescent pearls. A shift, and the shape on the rock moves, uncoiling like a vast serpent, but Harry can already tell it’s not a snake. There, a tail, and there a flash of leathery wings, and there again the arch of a sinuous neck as the elegant head lifts. One eye opens, reflecting light like faceted crystal, and turns to study them.

 _Dragon_ , Harry realizes with a breathless burst of terror, and wrenches back. Only Godric’s quick grab at his elbow keeps him from tumbling head over heels back down the path.

“Gwenhwyfar,” repeats the madman who founded Harry's House, tone nothing more than cheerful as two tonnes of dragon turns its attention on them. “Gwen, girl, you're still here! I thought you might have left!”

The dragon— Gwenhwyfar?—doesn’t move beyond dipping its—her?—head, neck long enough that her snout ends up right in front of Godric. He reaches out, not even hesitating, to rubs a hand over the knobby scales above her eye, and she leans into it like a very big cat, multicolored eyes falling shut. It’s almost surprising that she doesn’t start purring.

The idea of it incredibly tempting, even after Harry's experience in the First Task. Cautiously, Harry reaches out, heart still pounding in his chest, and glances at Godric. He gets an encouraging nod in return, and that gives him enough courage to ghost a hand over Gwenhwyfar’s snout. After a moment, when he’s still in possession of all appendages, he lets himself be bolder, following the path of Godric’s fingers to scratch over her eye socket. The feel of this massive creature, iridescent in the light of Godric’s spell and breathtaking from both her beauty and the terror she inspires, actually pressing into his fingers is…heady.

“I didn’t know there were dragons in Scotland,” he manages after a moment, keeping his voice low even though Gwenhwyfar doesn’t seem disturbed by it.

Godric laughs, proving that she doesn’t care about noises. “Generally there aren’t,” he confirms. “Well, the Common Welsh Green will sometimes wander this far north, though it’s rare, and sometimes Hebridean Blacks come looking for territory, but the wards keep them out. Gwenhwyfar’s an Antipodean Opaleye. They're native to New Zealand, but I found Gwen on the coast when she was newly hatched, all but dead. Opaleyes are gentle, for the most part, and don’t hunt humans, and since I’d raised her it was safe to keep her nearby. She chases out anything that might be harmful that the wards miss, and keeps the sheep population in check.”

Harry just shakes his head, still not quite able to believe it. “A _dragon_?” he repeats, and it makes Godric laugh again.

“Hogwarts isn’t just a haven for students,” the Founder says, climbing the last few meters onto the ledge and settling on a rock at Gwenhwyfar’s side. She twists her head around to follow him, and it’s massive, nearly four times the size of Godric’s torso, but she tries to lay it in his lap regardless, and makes a low, crooning noise that all but vibrates with frustration when she can't. With a fond huff, Godric shoves her gently away—as if she’s a _dog_ , and not a creature who could swallow him whole and then go looking for seconds—and compromises by rubbing at the curve of her neck, just below the long, thin spines. “The Forbidden Forest was another one of our projects: a place where magical creatures of all kinds could make a home. There's everything from griffins to snidgets to centaurs living there, Harry, and they're all at peace. Gwenhwyfar’s no different. Makes me wish the human portion of the wizarding world could be half as clever.”

The words are wry but the tone is wistful, and Harry nod as he steps forward to stroke the shimmering scales again in silent awe. They're smooth beneath his fingers, not rough the way he half-expected from how the Hungarian Horntail looked, and warm-hot in contrast to the night’s coolness. “She’s beautiful,” he says quietly, and light catches on the curve of Godric’s smile.

“That she is,” he agrees. He turns his head, and even though it’s out of sight beyond the hills Harry knows without a doubt that he’s looking back towards Hogwarts.

One last stroke of Gwenhwyfar’s neck, a murmured, “I’ll bring you some mutton later, beautiful,” and Godric rises to his feet, tipping his head towards another narrow trail that climbs steeply. “Follow me?”

It’s a question, but Harry nods without hesitation, giving the Opaleye a last pat of his own before he shadows the Founder up the hillside, carefully minding his feet in the shifting shadows from the little orb of light. The path is overgrown, clearly rarely used, but not treacherous, and Harry makes it to the top easily enough. Godric is standing on the crest of the hill, dark cloak billowing slightly in the wind, with a hand on the hilt of his sword. He looks like some fantastical image out of a history book, some sort of brave knight or dashing hero, and though by all logic Harry should feel insignificant in his presence he instead feels…better. Taller, maybe, or able to stand up straighter. Not quite unburdened by all the worries he left back at the castle, but…perhaps able to bear them more easily now.

“There,” Godric says quietly, pointing back across the lake. There's a break in the heavy clouds just large enough to see the moon, and its light falls like a path of silver brilliance across the dark waters of the lake. Above the glimmering surface, Hogwarts stands tall and proud, towers rising to piece the clouds. There are a handful of windows lit, the faintest edge of a glow to the castle, and this is beautiful too. In a different way than Gwenhwyfar, because that’s a natural, predatory beauty, as dangerous as it is lovely, while Hogwarts is just…home.

There's a hand on his shoulder, warm and grounding. Godric leans into him like an old friend, and Harry doesn’t need to see his face to know he’s smiling when he says, “You understand. I thought you might, Harry.”

Harry swallows, tries to speak. Realizes he doesn’t have a single word to do this justice, and settles for nodding, instead.

Godric sighs softly, contentment more than anything, and then says quietly, “We built Hogwarts to stand long after everything else is gone. So have faith, Harry. She’ll always be here. No matter what happens, no matter what you do or who you become, there's always a haven to be found. All you have to do is come back, and she’ll be waiting for you.”

It’s more of a comfort than anything Harry can remember. More than knowing he wasn’t just a freak, more than Sirius offering him a home—because for all he loves Sirius, for all that he would give everything for the man, they've met a bare handful of times. But Harry knows Hogwarts better than most, her secrets and her dangers and her hidden wonders, and he’s spent the last five years of his life here. Not all good, but…certainly very far from all bad.

“Thank you,” he whispers, hoarse and rough, and someday he’ll find something more meaningful to say, something to actually express just what he feels, but—for now, this is all he can manage, and from the comforting press of Godric’s hand he knows the man understands what he means.

“Always, Harry,” Godric tells him, firm and unwavering. “You're an amazing young man, and I'm so proud to have you in my House. Keep your chin up. There's a light on the horizon, I promise. It will get better.”

And for the first time in a very long while, Harry finds he can actually believe it.


	9. IX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is more plotting, suspicious Slytherins, underhanded tactics, and a war council.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of past inappropriate thoughts/attraction between Salazar (21) and Godric (15), though nothing happened until all parties were of age.

Godric skips breakfast to do the homework he’d neglected last night, misses lunch in favor of a quick catnap in a quiet corner of the library, and only goes to dinner to make a request.

Several eyebrows go very high when he drops down next to Salazar at the Slytherin table, facing out towards the rest of the Hall with his back towards the Slytherins, because he’s well acquainted with just how sneaky snakes can be. He wouldn’t put lip-reading past the more enterprising among them, especially the pair Salazar seems to have taken up with. The boy is giving him an assessing look, while the girl’s eyes are sharp and wary, but quite interested. Godric gives them a cheerful wave, carefully keeping his smile in place as he glances over at his friend.

Salazar’s already looking back, expression faintly guarded, but he hasn’t pulled his wand yet. Godric chooses to find that encouraging, even with the memory of their fight in the library yesterday still fresh.

“Evening, Sal,” he says cheerfully. “Got a minute?”

“I'm not helping you with your homework,” Salazar says flatly, but he pushes his plate away and stands up.

“As if I _need_ help,” Godric protests, following him, and really, Salazar should know him better. All of this is familiar, easy—the four of them didn’t come by the title of greatest witches and wizards of their time through tripping over it, after all.

Salazar rolls his eyes, but there's a smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. Godric feels his shoulders relax a bit, even though he hates himself a little for it; Salazar isn’t angry, doesn’t resent him for the barrage of rather petty spells he’d hurled at the Slytherin yesterday, and it’s a relief even though it shouldn’t be.

“I should hope not,” the older wizard says tartly, stepping aside so Godric can proceed him into an empty classroom. He closes the door, sealing it with a twitch of his fingers, and then turns, arching an expectant brow as he crosses his arms over his chest.

With a fain grimace, Godric takes a seat on one of the dusty desks, tapping his fingers against the wood. Seeing as there's nothing to be gained by hesitating, and dancing around the subject will likely only annoy both of them, he takes a breath and says bluntly, “I need a favor, Salazar.”

The unvarnished surprise that flickers over Salazar’s features feels a little like a victory, even now; Godric’s always gotten satisfaction out of startling the ever-composed bastard, and their time apart definitely hasn’t changed that. He grins a little, and Salazar narrows his eyes at him in return, then steps back to lean against the door.

“Something unrelated to schoolwork, I presume?” he says blandly, and Godric waves that off with some offense.

“You know me better than that, Sal,” he chides, and Salazar allows this with a soft snort. “No, this is… The other day, you mentioned speaking with the snakes around the castle. Have you managed it yet?”

Indignation that’s for once not directed at Godric flickers in Salazar’s eyes, and he inclines his head. “I attempted it last night,” he confirms. “I believe they know Voldemort’s location, but they won't betray him. They have agreed not to give away the fact that there is another Parselmouth present, however, so I suppose I should be grateful for their loyalty.”

If only they weren’t equally loyal to both Parselmouths, Godric thinks wryly, but just sighs. He honestly hadn’t expected it to be that easy, though it would have been nice to have his pessimism upended just this once. “Do you know if he’s asked them to keep the location of his Death Eaters a secret as well?”

Dark brows rise, and Salazar looks thoughtful. “I didn’t ask, but I would assume not. Such men rarely care for their follows unless it benefits them personally. Are you looking for one in particular, Godric?”

No one else says his name the way Salazar does. But Godric forces himself to push on past the—the _sentiment_ (and damn Salazar for that, if nothing else) and nod. “Peter Pettigrew,” he says evenly. “Voldemort’s former spy in the Order of the Phoenix, and the man responsible for betraying the Potters.” Then, because Salazar will believe strategic maneuvers far more readily than he will emotional motivations, “From what I’ve gathered he’s the Dark Lord’s closest servant, for past actions if nothing else. If we can snatch him and deliver him right to the Ministry, it will be a blow to morale at the very least.”

“It very much would,” Salazar agrees, though his expression is equal parts suspicious and thoughtful. “And just how did you come by this knowledge, Godric? I had thought it was Sirius Black who betrayed the Potters—and, incidentally, murdered Pettigrew.”

Godric just gives him a sharp-edged grin, not about to betray Harry's confidences, and Salazar knows him well enough to let it go with an eloquent roll of his eyes. “All right,” he agrees. “I’ll speak with the snakes tonight. Do you wish to come, or—”

Even though it will likely rouse his suspicions further, Godric waves him off. “No, I'm good. I need to work on that watching spell before Rowena gets impatient and strings me up by my ears.”

That, at least, gets him a quiet chuckle, though there's still a watchful edge to Salazar’s expression. “You’d best,” he agrees, and pushes himself upright. “After yesterday, I believe I would find myself disinclined to help you down.”

Knowing exactly what he’s referring to, Godric can't help but laugh. It was a bit petty of him to hang Salazar up by his heels, but admittedly he’d had a hard time thinking straight, he was so angry. And hurt, though he’d rather ignore that part of it. “You're a bastard,” he says, and doesn’t mean for it to come out as fond as it does. “That was just desserts, and you're well aware. Besides, there was nothing worse than a Jelly-Legs Jinx in there, so suck it up.”

Salazar rolls his eyes but doesn’t answer, and with him that’s the same as admitting Godric is right. “I’ll let you know if I find anything,” he promises, then slips back into the hall.

Godric watches him go, not feeling inclined to move just yet. Tonight looks to be…busy. He needs to finish laying anchor stones for the watching spell, but he also wants to be nearby when Harry's next detention with Umbridge finishes. The boy was shaken last night, reluctant to admit anything was wrong but hurting all the same, and Godric won't let him go through that alone. He knows pride well, understands why Harry feels he can't turn to his friends or those around him with this, but Godric is a stranger, larger than life in Harry's eyes. Turning to him isn’t the same as leaning on someone he already knows, and Godric hopes it will be enough.

Perhaps…

But no, taking Harry along with him would be too dangerous. Godric is confident in his ability to protect the boy, should the worst happen, but better not to risk it quite yet. Within the wards is one thing, but outside them, Voldemort could have anything prepared. So. Separate tasks, they’ll have to be, and even though it’s not nearly as dark outside as the first night, Godric will have to leave now to be back in time.

This would be far, far easier if there were two of him.

Reasonably, he could ask one of the others for help. Perhaps Rowena, who would be more than happy to take a thestral to the boundaries of the country and lay the stones for him. Or even Helga, who could offer Harry comfort, and far better than Godric would ever be able.

But—

But it is one of his greatest failings, that Godric always wants to do things himself. Perhaps it’s pride, perhaps it’s conceit or pigheadedness or just the product of having had to be almost entirely self-sufficient growing up, but Godric isn’t about to let anyone else take on his burdens. If one of the others asks, he’ll tell them, but he won't mention it before then.

And he’ll do his very damnedest to keep them from asking at all.

Salazar’s help is necessary. No one else can likely find where Pettigrew is hiding, not without months of searching, and Godric doesn’t want to waste that much time. That Harry said nothing about his current guardians speaks volumes, and if his fondness for his godfather is even a fraction of what Godric thinks it is, the sooner they're reunited the better.

Should they find out what he’s doing, Salazar will be disappointed, Helga will be hurt, and Rowena will be furious. Perhaps it’s a purely Gryffindor solution, but Godric’s answer to that is simple: don’t let them find out.

Taking a careful breath, he casts a Disillusionment Charm, waits until the hall outside is mostly clear, and then makes for the Forest again. This time he’ll have to take a thestral to the edge of Hogwarts’s wards and Apparate from there—he hasn’t the time to take even a fast thestral all the way to the next point. He’s also been to the precise spot where he’ll need to set the anchor stone, which means he can jump straight there.

The mare is waiting just through the trees again, and she happily accepts the cut arm Godric offers her in thanks, licking the blood off before turning to let him mount.

“Just to Hogsmeade,” he murmurs when she flicks her ears back, ready for instructions. “And if you don’t want to linger, I’ll understand. It shouldn’t take me more than an hour, but—”

She snorts, clearly offering her opinion, and takes flight with a surge of muscle. Godric almost goes sliding off her back at the suddenness of it, and has to grab desperately for her mane to keep his seat. He’s laughing, though, because he’s always appreciated spirit in everyone around him.

From Hogsmeade, the Apparation to St. Agnes Island is easy, if wrenching, especially given that he has to pause each quarter-distance between Lowestoft Ness and the Islands of Scilly to create the necessary beacons. He’s never been good at long distances, preferring brooms and the like whenever he needs to go more than a few kilometers. Pale and slightly nauseous, he staggers across the beach by wand-light to find somewhere well above the tideline, then etches the runes into a rock and hides it carefully.

Eleven at night. If he’s careful, and Harry's detention doesn’t finish early, he should be back right on time.

With a soft sigh, Godric draws the hood of his cloak a little more firmly over his face, then turns away from the star-studded ocean. It’s peaceful, but Godric’s never really cared to linger in such places. He prefers peace of his own making, a haven built with his own hands. Maybe it’s that conceit again. More likely it’s the habit of his first lifetime, not being able to trust that anything would remain unless he made sure of it himself. Hogwarts was the first to stay—

Well, no. Actually, the first was Salazar.

The flicker of tangled, twisted emotion that thought invokes gives him enough determination to turn sharply on his heel, imagining the destination, and he closes his eyes against the feeling of being stretched and condensed all at once. A crack, echoing around him, and he opens his eyes to see the quiet streets of the wizarding village. There's only a handful of people out, and the closest looks quite drunk, so Godric pays him no mind. The thestral has parked herself in an alley, and it takes a few minutes to coax her away from the restaurant’s trash bins, but she eventually surrenders with an annoyed flick of her tail.

“Yes, yes,” Godric murmurs, half-amused and half-exasperated. “You can come looking for scraps some other time, dearest. For now, I've an appointment to get to.”

She doesn’t smell quite as fresh as she did before, but she deposits Godric right on top of the Astronomy tower, so he can't complain, and he waves her off with a laugh. It’s possible he’s created a monster, seeing as she takes off in the direction of Hogsmeade again, but he can't bring himself to mind. Thestrals are scavengers as well as hunters, and a few raided dustbins is a small price to pay for her indulgence.

Leaning against the low wall, Godric entertains himself for a few minutes by contemplating whether Gwenhwyfar would be willing to ferry him around on these trips. He’s just gotten to imaging Rowena’s expression—equal parts jealous and scandalized—and Salazar’s—long-suffering—when the door at the top of the stairs creaks open. Godric turns, a little cautious, but it’s only Harry, carrying his bookbag and favoring his left hand again.

“Sorry,” he says a touch sheepishly, when he sees Godric looking at him. “Got loads of homework, and I can't skip it, but I, er, figured I could do it while we talked?”

He’s definitely one of Godric’s. With a soft laugh, uncaring of the consequences, Godric raises a hand and summons several balls of light, setting them to hover around the room. “We can leave talking for tomorrow night,” he suggests, conjuring pillows and a low table and the waving for Harry to sit down. “I’ll help you with that, if you like.”

A moment of hesitation, and then Godric reaches up. He hasn’t taken the aging potion yet, because there's only so much of it and he can't ask Salazar for more without giving himself away. The change in clothes has been enough to fool Harry so far, but won't last in close quarters. Doing this—it’s reckless, stupid, a ridiculous risk, but—

Well, that’s Godric all over, isn’t it?

He flips his hood back, not even trying to stay in the shadows the way he’s always done before, and smiles at Harry's gobsmacked expression.

“ _Gideon_?” the boy splutters incredulously.

Godric laughs. “Well, I suppose you could call me that,” he agrees. “I much prefer my own name, though—I'm liable to forget who you're talking to if you call me Gideon. Hard enough to remember during the day. But…you’ve trusted me. Trusting you in return seems like the very least I can do.”

Harry looks slightly dazed as he sinks down onto the cushions. “Gideon Griffiths,” he says, mostly to himself. “And the red hair, and sword-fighting, and being a transfer student—I probably should have guessed already.”

“Well, in our defense, we were hardly expecting anyone to meet us as ourselves, so we didn’t try too hard to hide anything,” Godric says warmly. “You were unexpected, Harry, though I'm glad you found me regardless. How’s your hand?”

With a grimace but no protest, Harry offers it to him. “I think she wants the words carved into my skin. She’s not going to stop until they are.”

“That’s generally the purpose of a Blood Quill,” Godric agrees grimly, repeating his numbing spell. He’s patched himself up enough times over the years to be quite good at it. “The words scar, and it takes a lot of magic to remove them. It’s painful, too. If you can stand living with the reminder…”

“What, that Umbridge is evil and twisted?” Harry spits, bordering on acidic. “I'm telling the truth, not lies. And I _won't_ lie, not about this. She’s just making that easier to remember.”

“Fair enough,” Godric agrees, releasing him. Sensing that some concrete news would be welcome, he offers, “You know about the curse on the Defense teacher’s position? I'm trying to find it. As soon as I do, I can turn it on Umbridge and get her out of Hogwarts, then break it completely.”

Harry still looks slightly moody, but that makes him smile a bit. “Maybe we can get Professor Lupin back,” he says, looking cheered by the idea. “He was definitely the best teacher we’ve had, but they sacked him because he’s a werewolf.”

That does, admittedly, mean less now than it did before the invention of Wolfsbane Potion, so Godric can see it being a possibility. There's no actual law against werewolves teaching, after all, just prejudice, and Godric’s always fought that. He might not have control of Hogwarts’s hiring anymore, but…there still might be something he can do.

“Speaking of professors,” he says lightly, changing the subject and giving the thought time to percolate, “you’ll have detention with Snape as well if you don’t finish that Potions essay. Do you need help? I might not have Salazar’s skill, but I know a good bit.”

Harry's expression freezes, and then gives an odd twitch. With a low groan, he reaches up to knead at his brow. “Salazar. Salazar Slytherin. He’s Solomon. And Heidi and Roberta…?”

“Helga and Rowena,” Godric confirms cheerfully. “Like I said, you didn’t expect me to linger alone, did you? We _all_ came back.”

“That’s…weird,” Harry decides finally. He shakes his head, then shuffles through his bag to pull out a slightly squashed roll of parchment. “Er, I've already got a few of the uses for moonstones, but not enough for a foot-long essay.”

Godric leans over, reading what he has so far. “You're missing a few. Tell me, do you remember what potions you’ve used moonstones in before?”

Harry groans theatrically, even as he reaches for a scrap of parchment and a quill. “You were a _teacher_ , weren’t you?” he complains, and Godric laughs.

 

 

Godric is up to something.

Salazar knows it as well as he does his own name, and moreover Godric isn’t trying particularly hard to hide it. Oh, he’s avoiding questions, slipping around accusations with a smile and a ready distraction, but he’s not really concealing anything and he knows it. He simply doesn’t expect them to call him on it.

Maybe, where this sixty years ago, Salazar would have. He’d have grabbed Godric by the ear, dragged him off to somewhere private, and gotten the answers out of him by any means necessary.

Now, though? Now Salazar is lucky if Godric stands still long enough to offer a morning greeting, and he can't do a thing about it.

The reckless idiot is skipping meals, too, but that at least can be readily dealt with.

He gets several nervous looks sliding into an open seat at the Hufflepuff table, but ignores it. Helga is already watching him expectantly, brown eyes warm and welcoming, and he can't resist giving her a tired smile of his own.

“Gideon's skipping meals,” he says, and feels not an ounce of remorse for turning the wrath of Helga on his best friend. “I felt you would be best equipped to talk some sense into him.”

Helga frowns, huffs out something that sounds like, “Sense? _Him_? Impossible,” and without another word stands up and sails away like a very cute battleship. Salazar takes a moment to reflect how that expression on her normally sweet, cheerful face is capable of making those three times her size go weak at the knees in terror, and then decides his good deed for the day is done. Godric will likely take umbrage at the underhanded tactics, but Salazar knows the idiot can't last forever on pastries begged from the kitchens during breaks. The Gryffindor never stops moving, rarely pauses for anything, and without full meals he uses up his strength very quickly. This isn’t the Middle Ages; they aren’t short on food and trying to save whatever they can for the children in their care. Godric can afford to take an hour every now and then to eat.

He doesn’t look like he’s sleeping much, either, and that’s rather more worrisome. Less easily fixed, as well.

Deciding to ponder the problem while finishing the last of his homework, Salazar aims his feet towards the dungeon, grateful that it’s Friday and they have no classes. He’s hit a block on his personal project and can't quite think of a way around it, but that’s been happening periodically for fifty years now and he knows the only cure is time. Rowena might have a solution, but she has her own work to do, and there's no one else to discuss it with.

Salazar trusts no one beyond his three friends, and even with them he has his limits.

It would be a romantic notion, of course, if they alone had his complete trust. But Salazar has never given anyone all of himself, and he doesn’t plan to. There are little bits, hidden away, that not even Godric has ever seen, and one of the reasons he loves Godric as he does is because the man simply accepts it. He pokes and prods and teases and cajoles, but he never pushes. Never asks for more than Salazar can give, and knowing Godric so well means he can say with absolute certainty that that is one of the greatest expressions of Godric’s love. Salazar is never expected to be anything other than himself, and while he is more than capable of disappointing Godric—and has done so many, many times over the years—it is solely because Godric knows just what he’s capable of being. Salazar doing anything less is the disappointment, not Salazar himself.

Never Salazar himself.

There is a dark shadow looming by the entrance to the Slytherin common room, and Salazar quirks a brow at the sight of his Head of House standing there, idly fingering a piece of parchment. When he sees Salazar approaching, he straightens up, expression settling into neutral lines.

“Mister Silvius. If you would accompany me to my office, I would like to speak with you.”

Despite the phrasing, it’s very clearly not a question, and Salazar inclines his head politely, murmurs, “Of course, Professor,” and follows the man down the hall. Even so, his mind is racing, trying to figure out whether something he’s done—or, more likely, something Rowena and Godric have done—has gotten them all found out. For something like that, though, it seems much more likely that Snape would escort him directly to the Headmaster. It’s also improbable simply because of the sheer unlikelihood of anyone deducing that Hogwarts’s Founders have returned as schoolchildren. For all that he originally thought it yet another of Rowena’s madcap ideas dreamed up under too much of Godric’s influence, it has been…surprisingly sound.

With a flick of his wand, Snape undoes the complex charm on the door and sweeps in, gesturing Salazar to a seat. He takes the chair behind his desk, then leans forward and lays the parchment out in the very center.

“Explain this to me, Mister Silvius,” he says, with just the barest edge of silky threat. “I would very much like to know just what this…‘personal project’ is about.”

Silently cursing Godric for his lack of subtlety, Salazar takes a quick glance at the parchment, analyzing the diagram, and answers coolly, “A ward, sir.”

Snape’s eyes flicker from the paper back to Salazar, and one dark brow lifts. “A ward,” he repeats, touched with disbelief. “Mister Silvius, I am well acquainted with what ward-building looks like, and this is most certainly not anything that would function.”

Salazar considers his options. Play the fool, profess astonishment that the ward is useless, and then find Godric and hex him. Or admit the truth, of only a portion of it, and escape with pride intact to go hex Godric.

Judging by the expression on Snape’s face, the professor won't believe the former for even a moment. A shame.

“Yes, sir,” he says evenly. “It’s not a solid ward, but more of a self-sustaining sensing charm. A friend of ours suggested something similar, and as I am good at Arithmancy and Gideon is skilled with Ancient Runes, we decided to see if we could create it.” Another glance at the diagram, and Salazar truly does have to admit that Godric’s work is impressive.

With any luck Snape will just think they drew from or copied an existing spell, though Salazar doesn’t think that he’ll be so fortunate.

Dark eyes linger on him, then drift back to the parchment, considering. A finger traces the line of beacons indicated with small carrier runes, and then lifts. “This is a very complex ward,” Snape admits. “Quite impressive for only three years in Ancient Runes.”

He’s building a trap, though Salazar can't quite see the bait yet. With a tip of his head, he accepts the compliment, though he doesn’t let his eyes waver from Snape’s stony gaze. “We were schooled by our parents for the majority of our lives. Some of our areas of study were broader than others, given our interests.”

And—there. The faintest brush against his mind, cool and analytical and very much like his own thoughts, but Salazar has had a thousand years to practice such arts and isn’t fooled. He doesn’t throw up an Occlumency barrier, which would only alert the professor as to Salazar’s own skill, but instead grabs for a guiltless memory and shuts his own thoughts away behind it.

It’s Godric—of course it’s Godric—laughing with Helga on the shore of a wide lake, all of fifteen with the sun turning his hair to flame. Salazar, at twenty-one, had looked at him and for the first time thought _beautiful_ , and meant it as something more than innocent. Afterwards he’d hidden it for years, even though Godric as a boy was far more adult than many men, and hated himself for looking regardless.

But this memory—this memory holds none of that self-disgust, none of the longing. It’s a recollection of something lovely and nothing more.

While Snape is caught in the grasp of that, Salazar reaches out tendrils of his own, slipping ever-so-gently around the man’s own barriers and into his mind. There's a bevy of surface thoughts flickering like candles, and Salazar reaches for a particularly bright one curiously.

It’s a glimpse of a library, dark and dreary but with a begrudging sense of _home_ , a whispered, _Can't recall enough runes to be sure, have Pettigrew seek out the books my mother left, might as well make some use of the filthy little rat if the damned Dark Lord wants to force me to watch him_ —

 _Ah_ , Salazar thinks, careful not to let his surge of triumph through. So unexpectedly simple, in the end. Godric will be pleased.

Carefully, cautiously, he withdraws every last thread of his power, lets his memory of Godric by the water fade into thoughts of homework still undone, and is very, very mindful of his innocent expression as he asks politely, “Sir?”

Snape blinks, and the presence is gone. He looks down, a flicker of irritation neatly hidden, and says, “It’s a very…wide-ranging spell, if I'm reading the diagram correctly. These beacons would enable it to carry over quite a distance. Care to tell me what you plan to use it for?”

Damn Godric and his inability to keep things to their proper time and place. If he’d been more mindful none of this would be necessary.

Then again, without this conversation, Salazar might never have gotten the information on Pettigrew.

Un-gritting his teeth, Salazar answers, as evenly as he’s capable, “I believe Gideon wishes to become an Auror. We’re experimenting with things that might be applicable in the field.”

For another long moment, Snape simply studies him. Then he inclines his head and rises to his feet, tucking the diagram into his pocket. “I suppose I cannot fault your enthusiasm, or Griffiths’, considering that fifth year is when it is recommended you begin thinking about future careers. But personal projects may not enter the classroom. Remind your…friend of this as well.”

Hearing the dismissal in the words, Salazar gets to his feet, murmuring an agreement, and then hurries out of the professor’s office. Godric will want this news as soon as possible.

 

 

“It’s the perfect opportunity,” Godric insists, turning sharply away from the long window the Room of Requirement has created to face the others.

“It’s a stupid opportunity,” Rowena counters, seated in one of the throne-like chairs around the circular table. “And a stupider risk. This is Severus Snape’s personal home we’re talking about, being used to harbor a fugitive. It’s going to be warded, Godric, and watched. We can't tip our hand too early, and if anything goes wrong there, Voldemort will know exactly what's going on.”

Godric gives a snarl of wordless frustration, bringing his palm down hard on the tabletop. “We’re trying to _capture_ the bastard, Rowena! Not ask him to _tea_! So what if we alert him? He won't know a damned thing about us, and he won't be able to find us no matter how he looks, so I say we do whatever it takes to drag him out into the open.”

Rowena snarls right back, rising to her feet and leaning forward over the table to get right in his face. “And if he _does_ manage to track us, Godric? If we lead him back to the school? I suppose you think that’s worth it, as long as you get the opportunity to put your boot up his arse—”

Helga clears her throat politely, if pointedly, and meets their furious stares when they turn on her. “I agree with Rowena’s concerns,” she says calmly, and then, before Godric can even open his mouth to protest, adds, “However, Godric’s right. This is an opportunity we might not get again. Pettigrew betrayed the Order, betrayed the Potters. He’s spent at least fifteen years working for Voldemort, and even if he’s not as valuable as we think, he’ll still have _value_. Even foot soldiers know things.”

“And beyond that,” Salazar offers, lounging in his own chair like a king, “finally uncovering who truly betrayed the Potters might shift public opinion in our favor, or at least open people’s minds. At the very least, it will bring what Voldemort did back into focus, and some may remember enough of the first war that they’ll prefer caution over blind belief.”

Rowena’s mouth tightens and she turns away, raising a hand and raking it through her long hair. “So what then? We charge in there bold as brass and snatch Pettigrew up, dose him with Veritaserum, and leave him in the middle of the Ministry? That’s—”

“Brilliant,” Godric says, starting to grin. When all three of the others turn to stare at him, various shades of incredulous, he raises his hands defensively and demands, “What? We discussed this! Someone does actually need to call Voldemort out, and I should be the one to do it. This can be the opening salvo. Taking Pettigrew from a protected, supposedly safe hideaway, when no one is even supposed to know Snape’s a Death Eater—it makes for an impressive statement of intent, if nothing else.”

“That’s…very Gryffindor of you,” Salazar says blandly, and Godric can't do anything but laugh. Maybe a few days ago he would have taken offense, but on the edge of action, with a plan and a purpose before him, he can't muster the indignation. They're right, after all. He’d much rather attack than try anything like Salazar’s long games or Rowena’s intricate plots. It’s not just brashness, either, though that’s certainly a part of it; Godric has been a warrior long enough and fought in enough battles that he knows just how many things can go wrong with a complicated plan. Simple generally means straightforward, with few bits left to chance, and that automatically raises the possibilities of success.

Some people look down on Gryffindors for their bluntness, their forthrightness. Godric’s never heard of anything quite so stupid. After all, the shortest, least complicated path to victory is best, isn’t it?

“Well, I like it,” Helga says, and then when Rowena levels a disbelieving look at her just tips one shoulder in a shrug. “Not a lot of moving parts,” is her cheerful explanation. “Less to break that way.”

“This isn’t blacksmithing, Helga!” Rowena protests. “I know you’ve a deft hand with that, but this is Godric’s _life_ if anything goes wrong.”

Salazar, again showing the superior self-preservation instincts of his House, slides his chair back several feet to get out of the crossfire.

“You know, where I come from, they might call that cowardice,” Godric says, but he’s very careful to make it too low for either of the girls to hear.

“Then showcase your bravery, Gryffindor, and you step between them,” Salazar invites sweetly, also in an undertone. “Go on, I'm waiting.”

Before Godric can retort, Helga takes a breath and says evenly, “I'm well aware, Rowena. Godric is my _friend_. He was my _first_ friend, and I will do _anything I can_ to keep him safe. But there are always risks, and in this case, I think they're outweighed by the benefits.”

“And I think we can find a better way!”

Helga lifts her chin stubbornly. “Maybe,” she allows, because above all else Helga is fair. “But it will take time, and at any moment Voldemort could call on Pettigrew, or move him to a new safe house, or send him on a mission. According to what Salazar saw, Pettigrew is at his house right now, and for next two days we aren’t expected anywhere. We don’t have the luxury to wait.”

With a low huff, Rowena sinks back into her chair, rubbing her temples. “I've rubbed off on you,” she mutters. “Well reasoned, Helga.”

“Thank you,” Helga responds sunnily, then turns her smile on Godric. “So! What's your plan?”

“Don’t dignify what comes out of his mouth with such a lofty title,” Rowena complains. “‘Burst in wands blazing and pray’ isn’t actually a viable strategy, no matter what the brat wants to think.”

“I am not a brat!” Godric protests, and _that_ is enough to offend, most definitely. “You are only seven years older than I am, hag, and I hardly think it matters anymore!”

“It will always matter, my sweet little Godric,” Rowena informs him with malicious cheer.

Salazar looks faintly pained. “You do remember what you're implying when you bring this up?” he asks, arching a brow at her.

Rowena just waves him off. “I’m fairly certain I laughed at you enough when you first lamented your unfortunate attraction in my presence,” she says, though she still looks wickedly amused.

“You did,” Salazar says darkly. “I'm fairly certain the word ‘catamite’ was used. Several times.”

“We’re not talking about this,” Godric cuts in firmly. “We are _not._ And Rowena, I was _seventeen_ before anything happened, as you well know. Keep bringing this up and I will remind you of what occurred—”

“You _wouldn’t_ —”

“—in Paris,” he finishes, feeling much cheered by the way Rowena’s face has gone three shades paler. “And I very much would.”

“ _Bastard_ ,” she hisses, and Godric blows her a kiss in answer.

“Our plan?” Helga repeats, slightly despairing.

Godric shrugs, breaking his staring match with Rowena to offer her a quick smile. “Let’s keep it simple. Rowena will find the location, you’ll lay down the charms and wards to keep anyone from escaping, Salazar will break through Snape’s defenses, and I’ll duck in and grab Pettigrew. Then we dose him and I dump him at the Ministry.”

There's a moment as the others digest this, and then Salazar nods. “Agreed. That seems to have the highest probability of working out.”

“Except for all the bits that could go wrong,” Rowena mutters, but raises her hands in surrender. “I’ll head into London tonight. My cover in the Ministry should still be good, so it won't be too hard to check the records. We move tomorrow?”

“Noon,” Helga says firmly. “As long as you’ve got the information by then. If the Death Eaters are used to operating at night, they might even be asleep, and we can catch them off guard.”

“Excellent.” Godric grins at all of them and claps his hands. “So, anyone feel up to a duel, just so they're in practice?”

Three cushions come flying at his head, followed by aggrieved groans, and he ducks away with a bright, happy laugh.


	10. X

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a quasi-fairytale, kissing, realization, and too much brooding.

 “I can't believe this damned thing still works,” Rowena says a little sourly, dropping into the passage through the witch’s hump. “Someone please remind me of this whenever I forget, because Godric is _never_ allowed to make jokes that might be in some way permanent.”

“Oh, come on,” Godric protests, several yards ahead of her already. “You met Gunhilda, she would have thought it was funny!”

“I'm sure she would have,” Helga says diplomatically, peering down through the opening. “Are you all right, Rowena?”

Godric carefully doesn’t look at the besotted smile Rowena gives her, instead focusing on conjuring another floating orb of witchfire as he heads towards Hogsmeade. It’s not that he resents Helga her happiness, or her easy forgiveness of Rowena—he knew that both were likely, after all. Helga is kindly by nature, and infinitely forgiving. There was no way she’d remain at odds with Rowena if the Ravenclaw showed even the faintest hint of remorse. But…

But it makes him angry, just a little, because. Because clearly it was something more than boredom that separated Rowena and Salazar from Helga and himself. Salazar’s jealousy the other day was enough to tell him that, once he could look at it without his temper clouding his judgement.

It can't be overstated, but Godric is _not stupid_. Gryffindors are known for rushing headlong into danger, but they wouldn’t be brave if they couldn’t manage to comprehend that danger. Bravery is victory over fear, success in spite of it, not a lack of fear. Bravery is understanding, accepting, and doing what you must regardless. Godric rather thinks the others have forgotten that—that _Salazar and Rowena_ have forgotten that—and it’s leaving him in a rather poor temper.

The pieces are adding up. All the little bits are coming together, because Godric is blunt to the point of trauma, open with his emotions, obvious in his thoughts, but that’s hardly all he is. Centuries he’s survived because he can look at a man, tell if he’s a threat, and react accordingly, all in the time it would take someone else to notice the color of his hair, the styles of his clothes. One doesn’t have to be a genius of Rowena’s ilk to read a person. It’s a fighter’s instinct, gut feeling combined with nonverbal cues and unspoken intent, and Godric knows very well how to interpret such things. Even in his two friends, who should know enough to hide their thoughts from him, he can pick out the clues they're trying so very hard to hide.

And try they have, ever since they met on the platform. But not enough. Not completely.

Godric can read the shift of their eyes towards each other, whenever something unexpected happens. Can read the tightness in Rowena’s expression when she looks at Helga, the expression that says, ‘ _I'm not happy, but this isn’t for my sake._ ’ Can see the tilt of Salazar’s chin, the assumed arrogance that covers the hurt as it mixes with indignations, and…

Were he anyone else, were _they_ anyone else, he might take the way they gravitate towards each other as love, romantic affection. But there's no spark to it, no edge beyond the prickle of competition that’s always run between them, and the way Rowena’s eyes automatically slide to Helga says more than words ever will.

For the last week, Godric has been angry. He’s been hurt and furious and distracted by both of those things. Instead of thinking about Rowena, about Salazar, he’s turned his attention to Harry, who needs him, and the warding rune, which the Founders need. His attention has been split apart and fractured and he hasn’t tried to change that, but—

But Salazar got jealous, and now that the fury is fading, it’s like the veil has been stripped from Godric’s eyes.

Of course, what he sees now only makes him angrier.

They're _planning_ something. Or they _planned_ something, and this is the result. Not a happy one, because Rowena caved and went to Helga—that means she doesn’t feel justified in her decision to leave. She’s looking for another way. Another way to do _what_ Godric has no idea, but just knowing that there's some sort of plot going on is enough to make his teeth grind, to make his grip just a little tighter on his sword than it needs to be.

Salazar getting bored with him was one thing. But if Salazar still feels enough to get jealous over a little harmless flirting—and Godric is well aware that once Salazar abandons something, he’s most definitely not one to cling to it—then it _wasn’t_ boredom that drove him away. He _didn’t_ get tired of Godric, but something made him imply he did, even though he _knew_ how hard Godric would take it.

That understanding, all of its implications—it makes Godric so angry he can hardly see straight, but he shoves the fury down and forces himself to _think_ in a way he hasn’t since the last time he faced a true battle.

Godric hasn’t forgotten Rowena and Salazar’s reaction when he brought up Voldemort’s aims. Maybe he hasn’t thought about it quite as much as he should, but there was definitely something to hide there. Salazar had looked at Rowena, and Rowena had looked back, and Godric hadn’t been able to read either one of them. Godric doesn’t want to think that either of them—his best friends, his lifelines, his _family_ —had anything to do with Voldemort’s rise, but…even if they didn’t, he suspects that they still know something about it that they're not telling.

Information is power; all four of them know that very well, and it’s the reason they founded Hogwarts. To know something is the have an advantage, an edge. It’s also to have a weakness, because knowledge always has a price. So what price did Salazar and Rowena pay, for such intimate knowledge of Voldemort’s goals?

His hand closes hard on the hilt of his sword, tight and angry and—

It sparks a thought. The very edge of a realization, like the tip of a piece of driftwood finally coming to light through the sand. Godric knows his own thought process too well to focus on it, because that will just make it vanish again. Instead, he gives it a tiny nudge, just the barest fraction of his attention, and then lets it be.

Just in time, too, because a moment later Helga catches him by the elbow to curl her arm around his. “You're being very quiet, Godric,” she says, and her tone is light but there's undeniable concern in her eyes. Possibly warranted, because when Godric looks up they’ve nearly reached Honeydukes, even though he’s usually all too aware of tight, enclosed spaces like this one. “Are you all right?”

He’s angry with Rowena and Salazar, not Helga. Rarely ever Helga, though they’ve had their disagreements over the years. After all, Helga follows the rules, while Godric follows his own convictions. It’s left both of them wrong, a time or two, and reluctant to admit their fault. Still, there's a reason their Houses get on so well, and most of it lies in the fact that their temperaments are entirely compatible. It’s hard for either of them to hold a grudge with the other.

“Heavy thoughts, bright eyes,” he says, matching her lightness. “Don’t worry about it. I'm just brooding.”

The look she casts him says she isn’t fooled. “I’d have thought you’d be vibrating with excitement,” she points out, not quite managing casualness. “After all, we are heading into a fight. On _your_ plan, nonetheless.”

Godric is proud, definitely, but he’s hardly a braggart—those don’t tend to survive long. Especially in Rowena’s presence. All he does is shrug faintly, and offer Helga a wry smile. “I’d feel better if it were a regulation duel.”

“You wouldn’t.” Helga gives him a frown that says quite clearly that he should stop even attempting to lie to her. “That official duel sixty years ago, in Amsterdam? You hexed the referee, hung your opponent from the rafters, and then jinxed every last one of the judges.”

“They had it coming!” Godric protests. “He was bribing them, and everyone knew but was all too scared to call them on it!”

There's a quiet snort from behind them, and Godric glances over his shoulder to give Rowena a dark look. She simply arches a brow at him. “So you took it upon yourself? How very like you, Godric.”

Godric rolls his eyes but, because he’s still not a hundred percent certain what will come out if he opens his mouth to retort, says nothing.

“Are we really arguing over his tactics?” Salazar demands from where he’s bringing up the rear. “He won. What else is of importance?”

Rowena’s expression shades towards longsuffering. “Of course _you’d_ say that,” she mutters. “Salazar, winning is _not_ the only thing that matters.”

Salazar gives her a look like she’s truly insane, but keeps his peace. However, the silent skepticism is nearly overwhelming.

Godric has heard this argument too many times to get involved. With another roll of his eyes—and Merlin help them all, but he has a feeling it is going to be _one of those days_ —he pulls away from Helga to ease up the trapdoor that marks the end of the passage. When he’s sure it’s clear, he lets the door fall back, then turns around to face his friends and crosses his arms over his chest. “All right. Rowena, you got the location?”

Rowena brandishes a small scrap of parchment at him with an annoyed scowl. “As if I’d let you lead us down here without a destination,” she scoffs. “Severus Snape’s residence is listed as Spinner’s End, Cokeworth. Apparation coordinates are here.”

Godric grimaces as he takes the paper, memorizes the coordinates, and then passes it on, but there's little choice; thestrals will be too conspicuous, brooms too slow, and creating an illegal portkey is just asking for trouble. “Thank you,” he says, resigned to his fate. “Salazar, you're with me—we’ll take the front door. Helga, set up your charms and then circle around the back with Rowena. Only lift them when I give you the signal. Rowena, as soon as I get him—”

The woman smiles. It’s not kind. “I’ll leave them a message they can't mistake. And, on that note, I called in an anonymous tip to the Daily Prophet that something exciting was going to be happening in the Ministry’s atrium shortly after noon.”

“Brilliant.” Godric feels his expression pull into a matching grin. This way, there’ll be no risk of the Ministry sweeping everything under the rug. The Prophet seizes on anything headline-worthy, and a decades-old story of lies, betrayal, wrongful imprisonment, and massive embarrassment for the public figures involved? Any muckraking reporter worth their quill will jump on that and not let go.

Rowena’s expression turns pleased, and her smile warmer. One hand goes to her throat, and she pulls out the small potion vials. “Spells handy? Let’s not dawdle, then. On three?”

“Those took _weeks_ to brew correctly,” Salazar complains, even as he draws his own out. “Don’t make using them sound like swallowing noxious medicine. These are works of _genius._ ” The neck of his robes gapes open just enough for Godric to catch a glimpse of the delicate silver chain lying against the pale skin of his throat as he uncorks the flask.

But he doesn’t see anything else.

That little niggling thought is back, stretching out feelers, connecting the scattered pieces of his suspicions. Again Godric sets it aside for the moment, and…it’s not something Rowena would ever care to do, drawing conclusions like this. He isn’t even really drawing conclusions at all so much as going with his instincts, and that’s the type of thing that drives her logical, analytical mind right to distraction. But for Godric, who is forty percent intuition and twenty percent reflex, with the rest of him made up of pigheadedness, pragmatism, and slightly dubious wit in various proportions, it’s as natural as breathing, and he trusts his instincts.

This means something, though he can't quite think of what.

To hide his sudden distraction, he quickly swallows the necessary drop, grimacing and fighting a shudder as it goes down. It’s a relief to see Rowena and even Helga doing the same, and through a coughing fit Rowena only just manages to spit out, “Then make the damned things taste like something other than rotted sewer water! Morgana’s tits, Salazar, I don’t think I've ever tasted anything that foul!”

“ _Godric_ isn’t complaining,” Salazar retorts, though he’s taken on that particular pasty greyish-green hue that means his breakfast would be making a reappearance if he didn’t have quite so much control over his stomach.

“ _Godric_ also used to eat Winnifred’s cooking without gagging,” Helga says rather apologetically, rubbing compulsively at her mouth. “Sorry, Salazar, but I think I have to side with Rowena on this.”

Godric snorts, raising a brow at them all. “What was that? Sorry, I was too busy laughing at you three straining your stiches to notice.”

With a hiss of aggravation, Rowena draws her wand and gives it a sharp flick. Cloth rustles, shifts, and resettles, and Godric gives a weary sigh as the heavy hood of a cloak droops over his eyes. “You're a _hag_ ,” he tells her pointedly.

“Oops.” Even without looking at her, he can tell she’s smirking. “I must have misjudged your height. My fault, thought you were taller.” A moment later, the cloak shrinks, and Godric gives the Ravenclaw an unamused stare.

“Height jokes stopped being funny in the 1300’s,” he informs her testily. “We are the _exact same height_ , you absolute _wench_.”

“I'm going to tear your heart out and _eat it_ ,” Rowena says with an eerily cheerful smile, bringing her wand up and taking three determined steps forward. “Repeat that, please?”

Helga steps between them. “Stop it!” she scolds. “We’re wasting time. Salazar, Godric, we’ll see you there.” Seizing Rowena’s elbow, she turns neatly on her heel and vanishes them with a sharp pop before the other witch can so much as protest.

In their wake, Salazar gives an amused huff and casts Godric a sideways look. “She only does it because you let it rile you,” he points out dryly. “Calling her names hardly helps.”

But…Godric isn’t thinking about that anymore. He’s alone with Salazar in the faint light of his witchfire, ‘ _We’re parting ways here_ ’ ringing in his ears. Remembering the way Salazar almost touched him, that first day of class, and then dismissed it as sentiment. Recalling his own determination to step back, step aside, because he was no longer the one to make Salazar happy and Salazar _deserved_ to be happy, always.

But that’s not the truth of it at all, is it?

(And damn Salazar, damn him, damn him to the deepest pits of hell for once again making Godric feel that he’s _not good enough_. Decades Godric lived with that fear, when he first met the other three. Years of knowing all too well that he was too rough, too common, too bloody, and to have that come crashing back down on his shoulders because of four little words—)

Fury licks at his spine, white-hot but no longer blinding, and Godric takes two long strides forward, seizes Salazar by the collar of his silver-trimmed robes, and slams him back against the wall of the passage.

Salazar yelps, startled and off-balance, and automatically goes for his wand. But Godric is faster and always has been, knocks Salazar’s hand out of the way and steps right up into the other wizard’s space, blocking his escape. His knuckles brush the skin of Salazar’s throat, smooth and fair against Godric’s calluses and tan, bump against the chain holding the potion vials as he leans in, and Salazar flinches like he’s expecting a fist to the nose.

It’s tempting. _More_ than tempting. But in that instant Godric’s entire world has narrowed to raven hair and storm-cloud eyes and the faint scent of pine. He can feel Salazar’s breath on his cheek, the warmth of the other man’s body, and—

He kisses Salazar. Hard and bruising and desperate, fits their mouths together and presses in and _takes_ , because he can't think of anything else to do. And a moment later there's a hand fisting in his hair, another curled around the back of his neck as Salazar pulls him the rest of the -way in, chest to chest with Salazar’s hair spilling over his shoulders and not a thought in his head except _yes_.

Salazar is just as desperate as he is, the hard press of his mouth very near to violent with the hard edge of teeth behind it. Godric groans at a sharp nip, opens his mouth to Salazar’s tongue and feels his head spin with the heat between them. The flick of his tongue earns him a matching groan, low and heady enough to make him shiver, and he pulls away to take a shuddering gasp of air.

Cool hands catch his face between them, and Godric’s breath stutters in his chest as Salazar pulls him back in, slow and intent. Dark grey eyes have lightened to almost silver, eclipsed as they are by the dilated pupil, and the expression on Salazar’s face is unbelievably soft, with an edge of focused wonder to it. He leans in, intent, and Godric un-fists his hands from Salazar’s robes to slide his arms around the man’s neck, pulling him down. Salazar goes willingly, slanting his mouth over Godric’s again, but…carefully. Slowly. With determined purpose behind it, and the perfect understanding, even after so long, of just what little tricks will leave Godric’s mind a helpless tangle. A thumb traced up his spine, a small tug on his hair to remind him of the grip Salazar has, a scrape of teeth across his lip, and Godric is lost.

“Sal,” he whispers, in the bare second Salazar gives him between kisses. “Salazar.”

Salazar makes a low, sharp noise in his throat, leaning back against the wall and pulling Godric up further, taking most of his weight and kissing him again, short and deep. Another break, another hard press of lips, a murmured, “Godric,” and—

Godric closes his eyes, shakes himself hard, and wrenches away. “No,” he says sharply, and it sounds far louder than it should in the confines of the narrow passage. He rakes a hand through his hair, barely resisting the urge to just wrench at it, and steps back. “No, I _can't_.”

Salazar takes a slow, careful breath, then straightens. “You're right,” he agrees, and Godric tries to hide the shiver that slides down his spine when the words rasp low in his throat. “This is a terrible idea.”

But his eyes are still fixed on Godric, and there's a heat in them that Godric hasn’t seen in more than half a century.

“Truly awful,” Godric confirms, swallowing hard. He doesn’t shift forward, but when Salazar takes another step towards him, gaze locked with his, he doesn’t move away.

“Absolutely dreadful,” Salazar says, just a touch above a whisper. “You're still angry with me.”

“Furious,” Godric murmurs, and this time he’s the one to step forward. “I want to hit you so much right now.”

Salazar swallows. It doesn’t look like fear in his eyes. “And I…”

 _Still have secrets_ , he doesn’t say, but he doesn’t need to. “Deserve it,” Godric suggests instead, and reaches out to catch a lock of black hair in his hand. He twists it carefully, winding it around his fingers in an absent habit he would have thought far behind him.

“Mm,” Salazar hums, but not as if he’s truly listening. He raises a hand to cup Godric’s cheek, and Godric leans into it, letting his eyes fall shut. There are quill calluses on Salazar’s fingers, and his skin smells faintly of ink and aged parchment. Both are forgotten but familiar, like coming home after a very long time away, and Godric sighs, glancing up at the other man from under his lashes. Salazar gives him a faint, quirked smile, leaning in to press a careful, deliberate kiss to Godric’s forehead. His hand slides back, fingers tangling in the slightly longer strands of red hair at the top of Godric’s head, then smoothing gently.

“You're angry,” he says again.

Godric takes a breath and meets his gaze steadily. “Salazar, you have _no idea_ how angry I am,” he says truthfully, and for the first time in centuries, for the first time since Salazar left Hogwarts and let Godric believe he would never return, he lets that fury show in his eyes. He gives Salazar a glimpse of just how much hurt and rage is tangled up inside him, locked away to keep it from ever hurting those he loves, and when Salazar flinches away he just feels…tired.

“But,” he adds, soft and a little sad, and reaches out to skim his fingers over Salazar’s cheek, then down the line of his throat. “Always, Salazar, you are…”

 _My exception_ , he wants to say, and it would be true.

(Once upon a time there was a little boy whose entire world was a sword, a wand. A boy with nothing but a rough, ragtag family that had no place in it for a child, so he’d forced himself to be something else. And then that boy had met another, a fairytale prince from a shining tower, not trapped there, but…meant for it. Meant for nobility and learning and pale hands that smelled of ink, for sly smiles and politics and everything that the boy wasn’t.

The boy was blood. The boy was steel that killed and curses that murdered, the quick fear of an enemy in the half-instant before death. He was battle and killing fields and betrayal for coin, all the little bits of darkness that no one else would ever lay claim to so they bought them from him. And the prince—oh, but he was the most beautiful thing a little boy made of blood and death had ever seen, and the boy had watched him from a distance for so long. He might as well have been a fairy king, riding by on a white horse, while the boy scrabbled in the mud for a sense of purpose.

The prince had saved him. Saved him for no other reason than because he thought the boy _worth_ saving, pulled him out of the filth and blood and grave dirt and said, ‘ _Look what we could be together_ ,’ and…

That little boy has never looked back. But sometimes he wonders, because fairytales don’t end until the monster’s dead, and which of them in this story is the monster? Which of them has to disappear for everyone to get their happy ending?)

Salazar smiles a little, crooked and soft, as if he knows. Sometimes Godric wonders if he does, because he _must_ , but…he doesn’t think Salazar can ever quite grasp the depth and breadth of what he is to Godric. There are different things inside them, for all that their dreams fall on the same path. Different histories, so very different, and while Salazar _knows_ he’s never truly understood.

Yes, Godric is angry. So angry at what Salazar did. But Salazar is the mooring point around which his universe spins, and while Godric can rage he will never, ever hate this man. He’ll always turn to him before all others, always look to him first no matter the time and distance between them. And one day, when the rage fades, Godric knows he’ll follow Salazar to the ends of time and beyond, just the way he did before.

After all, their near-immortality was Salazar’s idea, and Godric had gone along with it. Agreed to forever, or as near to it as the human mind can comprehend, without even pausing to doubt. Nothing of his feelings has changed since then. Only circumstances, and Godric knows well enough that those are always shifting.

“Rowena’s going to gut us,” he finally says on a sigh.

Salazar arches a brow, then ducks forward again, kissing him softly. Godric leans into the careful press of lips, the slow slide of Salazar’s mouth against his own. When they finally break apart, want is a hot, heady curl in his gut, almost managing to temper the flames of his anger.

“Forget Rowena. _Helga_ will gut us,” the Slytherin counters, half-smirking as he steps back.

Godric considers this, then concedes the point with a shrug. “Yeah, but at she’ll give us a fair chance. Rowena fights _dirty_.”

“And who taught her that, I wonder?” Salazar arches a brow at him, then takes a steadying breath, shakes himself slightly, and vanishes with a faint crack.

“That is _not my fault_ ,” Godric complains, even though the other man is gone. He pauses, gaze fixing on the blank stone wall in front of him, and closes his eyes. His fingers flex, remembering the feel of firm skin beneath them, the brush of body-warmed metal as the chain slid past his grip.

Only one chain. Only one where there most definitely should have been two.

Salazar isn’t wearing his locket.

“Huh,” Godric says thoughtfully, looking down at his hand. His eyes fall on his sword, the ruby in the pommel catching the flickering light of his spell, and—

The thoughts connect.

_Godric. What happened to your sword?_

Rowena had reacted like it was important, _vital_. Like him losing his sword was close to the end of everything. Very little rattles Rowena; she’s tramped across bloody battlefields at Godric’s side, helped bury the bodies of the fallen. She’s faced down plagues and dragon attacks and starvation, and while she’s often lost her temper she’s never lost her composure. To see her shaken over his _sword_ is…unnerving.

Granted, it’s a piece of his immortality, the tie that connects his soul to—

 _Oh_.

Oh no.

Salazar isn’t wearing his locket. And while Rowena’s diadem and Helga's cup are hardly things for everyday use, Salazar has _always_ carried that pendant with him. Godric can count on one hand the number of times he’s taken it off since they met, and still have fingers left to spare.

If Godric’s right…

“Fuck,” Godric whispers, then draws his wand, turns sharply on his heel, and Apparates.

He appears on a grimy, fog-choked street without a single sign of life beyond his friends, the houses around them boarded up and falling into disrepair. The entire neighborhood looks grim and grey and dying, and Godric wrinkles his nose on instinct.

“Cheery,” is what he says, shoving the crackle of rage and confusion and realization down inside of him so he can focus. Clearly, whatever Salazar and Rowena have gotten themselves into has been happening for a while; it can wait a few more minutes while they deal with Pettigrew.

“Isn’t it?” Helga's smile is very wry, only just visible beneath the hood of her cloak and a carefully tuned Notice-Me-Not Charm. Godric can see her, but he doubts that anyone beyond the Founders can. She’s not as flashy as he tends to be, but Helga is better with charms than anyone Godric has ever met. “Still, at least we won't have to worry about bystanders.”

“I think you mean witnesses,” Rowena puts in, dry as dust, as she slips out of an alley to join them on the sidewalk. “But just in case, I warded the ends of the street.”

Helga smiles at her in thanks. “I've got all the basics up,” she tells Godric, mouth taking on a faintly worried slant. “He won't be able to Apparate anywhere or use a portkey, and all the others doors and the windows are sealed off. Anything special you wanted?”

Godric runs through a quick list in his head, trying to remember what he’s heard of Pettigrew. Likely it would have been wiser to ask Harry, but the others would be suspicious of such knowledge, and he’s not quite ready for Rowena to murder him for giving them away. This will have to do. Besides, Godric is confident that he can take one man alone. This is still what he’s best at, after all.

“Not that I can think of,” he answers, then reaches up to adjust his hood. “Get to the back, and let me know when you're in position.”

Rowena rolls her eyes at the terminology, but before she can start anything Helga grabs her arm, gives Godric a quick smile, and drags her away. Godric watches them until they disappear into the shadows, then turns to look for his partner.

Salazar is standing at the foot of the steps, frowning in concentration, fingers moving through the air in front of him as though he’s tracing threads. With a faint smile of his own, Godric slips up next to him, but doesn’t say anything, content to watch the other man work. Unweaving spells is an impossibly delicate business, something Godric himself has little talent for, but Salazar makes it look _simple_. As though it’s nothing at all to grasp a handful of curses and pull them apart until they're nothing but harmless bursts of magic. Watching him has always been a joy.

Finally the frown eases, sliding back into Salazar’s more natural expression, and he opens both hands. There's a flicker of power in the air, a rush like a stray bit of breeze whirling past, and then…nothing.

“Good?” Godric asks quietly.

Salazar snorts. “Snape is most definitely a Slytherin,” he offers. “Downright vicious, as well. But you should be safe opening the door, at least. It won't blow up the neighborhood anymore.”

With any other person, Godric might take that as a joke. Since it’s Salazar, he knows it isn’t, and rolls his eyes a little. “Crafty bastards,” he says, fonder than he means to be, then draws both his sword and his wand and turns to look for Rowena’s signal.

At the same moment, an eagle Patronus drops out of the sky to perch on a street lamp above their heads. The beak opens, and Rowena’s voice spills out.

“Godric Gryffindor, your wand had better be in your left hand or I’ll come over there and kick your scrawny arse myself!”

“I am _not scrawny_ ,” Godric protests, deeply offended, and gives the Patronus a fierce glare. Behind him, Salazar makes a soft sound that Godric _knows_ is a smothered laugh, and he spins to glare at the Slytherin, even as he trades hands so his sword is on the right. “Oh, keep laughing,” he snaps. “I _know_ it was you who set Helga on me about meals, you little bastard.”

Salazar, of course, just smirks at him. “Get moving,” he orders. “I don’t know if Snape has charmed the wards to reset at a certain time, and if you waste my efforts I’ll leave _you_ to unweave his spells.”

That would be just like a Slytherin. With an aggrieved sigh, Godric readjusts his cloak, closes his eyes, and breathes out slowly, forcing himself to focus on action and nothing else. All that matters is capturing Pettigrew and getting him to the Ministry. Nothing else. Not their relics, not Salazar’s secrets, not Rowena’s guilt, not Helga's worry. Just…movement. Reaction. Action.

He opens his eyes.

The door flies open with one hard, booted kick to the edge—not subtle, but sure to catch anyone inside off guard. Half an instant later he’s through, a handful of long strides carrying him right up to the base of a flight of stairs. There's a man halfway down them, books in hand. He’s balding and small, with colorless hair and pointy features, and as Godric steps into the light he goes reeling back, texts tumbling from his hold. A moment later his wand is in hand, and he hurls a curse.

Godric laughs. He sidesteps the bolt of red light, ducks a crackling white jet, and comes up with a Stunning Spell that flies in a perfect arc. It bounces off a Shielding Spell, but even as that falls Godric has two more spells flying, and the Disarming Spell catches him square in the chest. The wand flies out of his hand and goes clattering down the stairs, and—

The Full Body-Bind misses.

It shouldn’t have missed, Godric thinks, confused for half a heartbeat. But then he realizes the man is shrinking, shifting, features getting pointier.

The next Stunning Spell doesn’t miss.

“Tricky, tricky,” Godric says, adrenaline still humming in his veins as he sheathes his sword and leans over the still body of a rat with a bald patch on its head. “So that’s how you framed Black and got away. I had wondered.” He thinks of standing with Harry on the hilltop, looking out at Hogwarts in the moonlight, and casually flicks his wand. With a shimmer, silver light spills from the tip, condensing into a lion in mid-leap. Light as air, the creature lands and looks at him expectantly, and Godric tells it, “Find Helga. Tell her: Helga, I need a charm to hold an Animagus in human shape, if you’d be so kind.”

The lion turns and lopes out the door, and Godric turns his attention back to his prisoner. A jab of his wand returns him to his original form, and a flick sends him gasping back to consciousness. Beady eyes dart from Godric to the open door and back again, and Godric laughs coldly.

“Don’t even think on it,” he warns. “Pettigrew, I’d kill you now if I didn’t have a better use for you. But if you test me, I’ll make do with your corpse and feel no regret.”

There's terror on the man’s face, but Godric thinks of Harry, of a child orphaned at just over a year old, and can't feel anything except disgust and loathing. With a snort, he rises to his feet, turning to face Salazar as the other man cautiously steps into the house. “You have it?” he asks.

With a faint flourish, Salazar produces a vial of clear liquid from a pocket of his cloak and tosses it over. Godric catches it with a nod of thanks, then turns back to the Death Eater. He holds it up with a mocking chuckle and lets Pettigrew’s eyes follow it fearfully. “Know what this is? No? Well, I'm sure you will soon.”

Veritaserum won't equal a conviction—it’s not a guarantee of truth, despite what some people would like to think. But between it, the mark on Pettigrew’s left arm, and the simple fact of his survival, it will be enough to cast doubt on Sirius Black’s conviction. Since the man never even got a trial, even a few small bits of doubt will shake public opinion, and hopefully reopen the investigation.

Quiet footsteps announce Helga's arrival, and with a quick glance at Godric she crouches down next to Pettigrew and taps him hard on the sternum with her wand. There's a flicker of blue-green light, a sound like ice cracking, and the Animagus yelps. Helga rocks back on her heels and gives Godric a nod.

They're being very careful not to speak; after all, use of Veritaserum is heavily restricted, as is breaking and entering. Godric is the one trying to draw out Voldemort, and he doesn’t want to turn the madman’s attention on his friends. Even if word makes it to the Dark Lord—and Godric has little doubt it will, because he wouldn’t have lasted this long without spies in the Ministry—there will be no chance of the others being identified or even described.

With a faint smile, Godric nods back, then hauls Pettigrew up by the back of his robes. He takes a breath, gathering his magic in a tight, spinning knot around himself, and focuses. This would be far, far easier without a passenger, but to make an entrance that people will notice, he can't use the Floo or the phone booth entrance. To catch Voldemort’s attention, it has to be something showy, something grand. A statement, and to do that…

There are Anti-Apparation wards laid thick across the Ministry, bound into the building itself. But wards like that, for a public building, can't cover everything, and all magic has exceptions.

Godric lets the magic build, then pulls Pettigrew aound and vanishes with a ringing _crack_.

It’s like jumping into a pool of water only to land on a sheet of thin rubber. The wards press hard, trying to bounce Godric right back out, but he’s the wizarding world’s greatest duelist for a reason. One hard, snapped spell punches a hole straight through the covering. They streak down like a jet of light, sending witches and wizards tumbling away in terror, and a flicker of will has silver flames springing up in a wide circle around their landing point. It catches the first barrage of spells from a group of Aurors just emerging from the Floo, but Godric doesn’t even glance at them as he hauls Pettigrew upright once more.

“ _Stop_.”

One word, but it reverberates across the Atrium, leaving a ringing, horrified silence in its wake. Godric gives it a moment to be sure the silence will last, then steps forward.

Time for a show.

“I've heard the Ministry supports justice,” he says, and lets a subtle amplification spell carry it to every ear. “I even let myself believe it, because the people here are good and kind, and surely their leaders must be the same. So imagine my surprise to find that you left an innocent man to rot in prison for twelve years while the man who committed the crime walked free.” A hard push has Pettigrew tumbling forward with a cry of fright, then scrambling to his feet and edging away from Godric, though he doesn’t try to get past the flames.

A tall, broad-shouldered black wizard pushes through the crowd, and though he doesn’t try to cross the silver fire either, his eyes lock on the cowering Death Eater and widen sharply. “Peter Pettigrew,” he says, and though it’s quiet, his deep voice carries.

“Missing one finger, even,” Godric confirms over the rash of desperate whispers that break out. He holds up Salazar’s vial, then steps forward. “And this would be Veritaserum, because I'm sure we’re all _very_ curious about what exactly happened fourteen years ago. Well, Pettigrew? Should I resort to this, or would you rather incriminate yourself?”

“You're—you're working for You-Know-Who!” Pettigrew shouts, though his voice shakes. “You and Black, both of you! I'm innocent, I've been in hiding—”

“Why would a hero hide himself away?” Godric counters, matching Pettigrew as he stumbles backward. “You have an Order of Merlin, for your actions against Black. Why not come forward once he was safely away in Azkaban?”

“Because he’d kill me!” Pettigrew shrieks, stumbling over the hem of his robe as he tries to get away and going sprawling. “Because I knew! I knew he’d come after me someday!”

As quick as a cat, Godric lunges forward, seizing Pettigrew by the left arm and dragging him back to his feet. With a sharp flick of his wand, he vanishes the man’s sleeve, then tugs his arm up, turning it to present to the wizard who named Pettigrew—and, beyond him, the rest of the gathered crowd.

“Tell me,” he asks the wizard, likely an Auror. “Did Sirius Black have a Dark mark? Did he have one of these?”

Absolute silence.

Godric lets go of Pettigrew, but before he can do more than clutch his arm across his chest Godric offers him the Veritaserum again. “Shall we find out?” he challenges softly, although his voice carries. “I’d very much like to know who really betrayed the Potters, Pettigrew.” He catches the ripple of magic just before Helga's charm does, and snorts when the attempted transformation rebounds with a crack. “Ah, I wouldn’t try that, were I you. Being an unregistered Animagus isn’t quite as hefty a crime as serving a Dark Lord, but I'm sure there's still a stay in Azkaban attached.”

The Auror’s eyes narrow, and he glances at Pettigrew and then back at Godric. “Who are you?” he asks, and though it’s worded like a demand there's only bewilderment to be heard.

Godric laughs, flipping him the Veritaserum. “A concerned citizen,” he answers lightly, reaching down to touch the sword sheathed at his side. The Auror’s gaze follows the motion and he stiffens, but before he can say anything Godric adds, “My ancestor was Godric Gryffindor, and I've made it my life’s work to ensure that Slytherin’s line never rises again. Gryffindor was a great wizard, and I won't see his work undone by a madman.”

(Oh, Merlin’s frilly knickers. Rowena’s going to use this as ammunition _forever_ , Godric thinks despairingly. His life is really very hard.)

Strangling a groan, he flicks his wand, and the flames curl up and around, shimmering into rope that sweeps down to wrap Pettigrew up as neatly as a present. In the resulting confusion, Godric turns precisely on his heel and vanishes with a pop, leaving no trace of his presence beyond the trussed-up Death Eater squirming at the Auror’s feet.

He even repairs the ward behind him as he leaves.

“Well?” Rowena demands as he reappears in the tunnel under Hogsmeade, barely giving him time to materialize before she’s rushing at him.

Godric laughs, sweeping her up in his arms and whirling her around. “Done!” he confirms, setting her on her feet and reaching out to grab Helga. She giggles as he drags into a few steps of tango, then presses a kiss to his cheek and steps back, and Godric grins at the last of his friends. Lips quirking faintly, Salazar simply shakes his head, then steps forward and touches Godric’s cheek.

“One step forward,” he says. “It’s a good start.”

Godric thinks of Harry's face when he hears the news. Thinks of a family reunited, an innocent man pardoned, and grins. The knowledge of Salazar’s missing pendant hovers in the back of his mind, but right now even that can't dent his joy.

Even if this doesn’t prove Voldemort’s return, it’s a domino. Soon enough, with a few more pushes, all the rest will come tumbling down.


	11. XI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Several people have wanted to know if there's going to be an evil-and-manipulative!Dumbledore angle to this story. There's really, really not. I hate character bashing in general, and Dumbledore bashing in particular—it’s why I'm not more active in the HP fandom. I find it all ridiculous and petty and grossly out of character, and of course everyone is welcome to disagree, but given that this story is kind of my baby I'm going to stick to my guns. Dumbledore is one of my favorite characters, and will be portrayed as IC as I can get him.

Sirius had never thought that he could hate Grimmauld Place more than he did as a child, but lately he’s come to the unpleasant realization that his hatred from then is nothing compared to what he feels now. The walls are closing in, the ceiling is weighing down, and Sirius feels as though he’s about to be buried under fury and frustration and hopelessness.

There's no chance to clear his name, not unless they kill Voldemort or catch Peter. No way for his imprisonment here to end. There's nothing he can do beyond staying out of sight, no help he can provide, no way to be of use. He’s a prisoner here just as surely as he was in Azkaban, and it itches like madness under his skin.

He thinks of Harry, thinks of wary green eyes in James’s face, and curls his hands around the back of his neck, leaning forward to brace his elbows on the table. Sirius knows better than any just how deep the Black family’s madness runs—he’s seen so many cases of it, from Regulus’s desperately perfectionist tendencies and self-directed rages when he failed to Bellatrix’s all-out psychosis—and he’s not arrogant enough to think that he’s escaped it. Not anymore. Even if he had a chance once, Azkaban tore him apart, and there are only so many times Sirius can piece himself back together.

“More tea, Sirius?” Molly asks gently, picking up the empty pot as she passes behind him.

There's a part of Sirius that wants to snap and snarl and storm out of the room in a rage because she’s interrupted his brooding, because she’s trying to _mother_ him and he’s not a child, not mentally impaired, is a grown man who escaped the most impenetrable prison imaginable, but—

But he thinks of madness, thinks of family, and lets his breath out in a long sigh.

“Yes, thank you, Molly,” he says, and offers her a faint, crooked smile.

She smiles back, then turns away, flicking her wand. The kettle lifts off the stove, joining all the other cooking paraphernalia in the air as it fills itself at the sink, then sails back to the burner. Sirius watches for a moment, distracted by the unfamiliar display. His mother certainly never used such charms, and Kreacher kept them out of the kitchen. Well, Regulus was allowed in, but Kreacher never denied Regulus anything.

In the distance, the front door opens, and Sirius straightens, looking up with a faint frown. He hadn’t thought that there was anyone else coming back apart from Arthur, who usually uses the Floo. Everyone he can think of is out on missions or simply waiting for something to happen, and they generally have at least a little warning if someone is going to drop by.

“Molly? Sirius?” a deep, familiar voice calls, softly enough not to wake Walburga’s portrait.

“In here, Kingsley,” Molly calls back. “I was just about to make some tea. Would you like some?”

A moment later, Kingsley steps through the door, looking tired. “Maybe something a bit stronger,” he says wryly. “Albus called an emergency Order meeting. Everyone should be arriving shortly.”

“An emergency meeting?” Sirius half-rises from his chair, feeling a flicker of panic ignite in his chest. “Is it Harry? Has something happened?”

Kingsley takes a seat across from him, slumping into the chair in a way that speaks of long days and too much stress. “Harry is fine, as far as I'm aware,” he answers. “This concerns you, actually, Sirius.”

Sirius blinks, caught entirely off guard. “What?” he asks dumbly. “But—I've been here the whole time, I haven’t left! Is the Ministry adding more charges? I hadn’t thought the list could get any longer, but maybe if they got creative…”

The Auror isn’t laughing. He rubs a hand over his face, waving Sirius back to his seat, and says, “I suppose you should hear it now, rather than in front of the whole Order. Sirius, someone turned in Pettigrew this afternoon. The Ministry has temporarily suspended all charges pending investigation, and they’ve halted the hunt for you. There's a request that you come in to give another statement, but nothing more.”

Sirius sits down hard, his knees all but buckling. “ _What_?”

“Ah, I see the news has already been broken.” Dumbledore pauses at the edge of the kitchen, watching Sirius over the tops of his half-moon glasses. His expression is gently concerned, but he’s smiling a little. “My congratulations, Sirius.”

“Thanks,” Sirius answers dazedly. He can't even begin to wrap his head around the idea. “ _Wormtail_? Someone _brought in_ Wormtail? How the hell did that happen?”

With a low laugh, Kingsley drags a hand over his shaved skull and shakes his head. “We don’t know,” he says, almost wondering. “It was a man in a cloak, and he never took off his hood. But he Apparated directly into the Atrium and made a show out of it. Dropped Pettigrew right at our feet, wrapped up like a Christmas gift.”

“Oh my.” Molly braces herself on the edge of the table, smoothing her hair back from her face with a shaky hand. “And—that’s it? They know Sirius is innocent now?”

Innocent. The word echoes strangely in Sirius’s ears, as if heard from a great distance. It’s—impossible. Improbable. He’s always known that he was innocent, that Peter was the traitor, but…other people knowing, believing it? Outside of Harry and the Order, he’s never even contemplated it. Never thought about the end of the war or what might happen. And this—this is—

“It is not quite so simple,” Albus says gently, briefly resting a hand on Sirius’s shoulder as he passes behind him. It’s a comforting touch, grounding, and Sirius drags a hand through his tangled hair before looking up. The Headmaster is still watching him, still smiling, and there's a spark of something very like hope, like the belief that things actually will get better, in his pale eyes. “But it is also not much more complicated, either. As they have Pettigrew in custody, you clearly cannot be blamed for his murder, and the man who apprehended him made it very clear where Pettigrew’s loyalties lie.”

“Who was it?” Molly flicks her wand distractedly as she takes a seat, and the teapot sails across the kitchen to hover over the table, followed by a round of cups. “Not an Order member, then?”

Dumbledore accepts his cup with a cheerful smile. “No, no, but I believe he was a friend regardless. By Kingsley’s account, he was certainly not a Death Eater. Thank you, Molly.”

Sirius breathes, trying to settle his heartbeat. “Just a passing hero, then?” he snorts. “Doing his good deed for the day?”

“Not quite.” Kingsley’s expression is wry. “He claimed to be Godric Gryffindor’s descendant.”

Sirius’s brain stalls out, and he blinks at the Auror disbelievingly. “ _What_? But—finding a descendant of Gryffindor is like finding Merlin’s wand. There's no way. It’s impossible.”

“Ah,” Dumbledore says serenely. “But impossible things that have already happened are not impossible, merely improbable.”

“Albus, you _believe_ this?” Molly asks, and for once Sirius is in full agreement with her. “He could be anyone!”

Dumbledore’s smile turns faintly wistful. “Indeed he could,” he allows. “However, a little over a week ago, the Sword of Gryffindor vanished from its case in my office. I had thought it simply returned to wherever Hogwarts keeps her treasures when they are not needed, but this man wore it easily. Even if he is not who he claims to be, the Sword is proof that he has noble intentions.”

That, at least, is fairly hard to argue with. Magical relics imbued with their creator’s power and intent aren’t easily fooled, and Sirius has read about Gryffindor’s blade. If turning in Pettigrew wasn’t enough to prove that this man doesn’t intend to harm anyone, the Sword is a decent testament to that fact.

Sirius takes a breath, another, a third. If it shakes a little on the exhale, he thinks that can be excused. This is—he can't even _imagine_ how much things will change, if this all turns out to be true. “Will they throw me back into Azkaban the moment I set foot in the Ministry to make my case?” he asks, interrupting Albus and Kingsley’s quiet debate over the stranger’s origins.

“They can't,” Kingsley reminds him. “You were arrested for the murder of Pettigrew and twelve Muggles. Pettigrew being alive casts doubt on everything, and the fact that this isn’t wartime is in our favor. They’ll have to give you a trial, at the very least.”

There's still a chance that this could all go to hell. A large chance, even, but it’s still Sirius’s best ticket to freedom. He squares his shoulders, raises his head, and looks at Albus. “Would you be willing to take me there?” he asks. “I’ll talk to them, but I want a way out if something goes wrong.”

Molly protests, but Sirius doesn’t even bother to listen. He holds the Headmaster’s steady gaze, and is relieved to see a twinkle of mischief spark in blue eyes. “Of course, my boy,” Dumbledore says merrily, and Sirius is abruptly reminded of his expression when the Marauders charmed all of Professor McGonagall’s clothes to smell like catnip. Albus had reprimanded them, but Sirius is a hundred percent sure he got a good laugh out of it, too. Playing a trick on the Ministry is probably right up the man’s alley.

Sirius grins back, gripping the edge of the table, and thinks of freedom. Thinks of escape, and happiness, and for the very first time, he allows himself to think of the future.

 

 

Harry takes one step into the Great Hall and is nearly deafened by the whispers. He stiffens, the high of talking with Cho in the Owlery abruptly vanishing as he feels practically every eye suddenly trained on him, and has to resist the urge to spin on his heel and walk right back out. It’s only the sight of Ron and Hermione, heads bent together at the Gryffindor table, that keeps him from doing so.

Steeling himself, Harry strides across the Hall as quickly as he can without looking like he’s running. The stares are awful, but they don’t feel hostile, or accusatory, like they have before. This is interest, sharp and intent, and simply unnerving.

“What’s going on?” he asks lowly, sliding into his seat next to Ron and Hermione.

His friends trade glances, and then Ron says, “We’re waiting for the _Prophet_. Something happened at the Ministry yesterday, but I dunno how many of the rumors are true.”

“Rumors?” Harry demands. “Is this about Voldemort?” He ignores the flinch they both give at the name, entirely fed up with it by now, and forges on. “Did he attack the Ministry? Did—”  

Before he can get even another word out, the post arrives, and a huge screech owl lands next to the sugar bowl with Hermione’s copy of the _Prophet_ clutched in its beak. Hastily, Hermione fishes a Knut out of her pocket and pays the bird, then grabs the paper and shakes it out.

Harry takes one look at the headline and finds he can't even breathe.

 ** _SIRIUS BLACK FRAMED_ ** screams the headline, and then right beneath it, in just slightly smaller letters, **_THE MAN WHO REALLY BETRAYED THE POTTERS FINALLY FOUND_**

“Blimey,” Ron says faintly. “They caught Wormtail?”

“Someone did,” Hermione confirms. “Look at this! _Stranger in a dark cloak…powerful wizard…gross misconduct revealed in the handling of Black’s case…Pettigrew brought to justice by the Heir of Gryffindor himself_. This is—this is incredible!”

There's only one person that it could possibly be.

“Sorry,” Harry blurts, scrambling to his feet. “I've—I have to—I’ll see you later, yeah?” Ignoring Hermione’s protests and Ron’s yelp, he casts a quick look down the Gryffindor table, seeking red hair, only spots Fred and George, and then spins around and bolts back towards the dorm. Godric had still been asleep when he left to mail a letter to Sirius, and since he’s not at breakfast, the next best bet is that he hasn’t made it down yet.

As he expected, when he stumbles around the corner a few halls from the Fat Lady’s portrait, Godric is just heading towards the Great Hall, hair messy and clothes rumpled. Harry barely remembers to make sure the hall is clear before he throws himself at the man.

“Godric!” he hisses, not sure if what’s bubbling up in his chest is joy or something else. “Godric, you—”

Godric blinks at him for a long moment, brain clearly still firing up, and then he smiles warmly. “ _Prophet_ ’s here already, then?” he asks, reaching out to drop a hand on Harry's shoulder and squeezing gently.

“You…” Harry has to stop again, too many words crowding on his tongue and feeling distinctly overwhelmed. He chokes on what he’s trying to say, still dizzy with disbelief, and finally manages, “You did that for _me_?”

Godric chuckles, tugging him to the side and into an open room. “Not entirely,” he says judiciously. “It was to get Voldemort’s attention, really, but there was a happy side effect that I thought you might appreciate. Think of it as a little bit of the debt we owe you paid off.”

That smile is equal parts wicked and warm, and his green eyes are steady. Harry's heart is in his throat, his chest hurts, and all he can think is that Sirius is going to be free. His parents’ real betrayer will finally get what he deserves, Voldemort will lose one of his closest Death Eaters, and Harry can legally have _family_ now. No more summers with the Dursleys. No more having to go back there.

Godric gave him his godfather back, and nothing Harry can say will ever do that justice.

He gives in to the impulse, stepping forward and throwing his arms around Godric in a short, fierce hug. The redhead stiffens for a brief moment, but then he chuckles softly and strong arms come up to hug Harry back.

“Thank you, Godric,” Harry whispers desperately.

“You're welcome, Harry,” Godric says, his voice gentle. “You're a strong wizard, a brave young man. Really, this is the least I can do.”

It’s so far from true that Harry wants to laugh, but he can't. He thinks of all the nights on the rooftop, of Godric taking away the pain in his hand, of the way Godric _understands_ even when no one else can, and he can't say anything at all that will do that justice.

“I get to live with Sirius,” he says, wondering, and it really hits him then. He pulls back, grinning, feeling joy burning like a bonfire in his chest, and thinks that at that moment he could conjure his best Patronus ever. “I don’t have to go back to the Dursleys. You cleared Sirius’s name!”

Godric laughs outright at that, smoothing a hand over Harry's hair in a way that feels breathtakingly fatherly, despite the fact that he only looks fifteen. “Well, I had a bit of help,” he demurs, but he’s grinning brilliantly. “Besides, pissing off Dark Lords has always been a bit of a hobby of mine.”

The mere thought of Voldemort’s face when he hears the news makes Harry grin, too. “It’s _brilliant_ ,” he enthuses. “I—thank you. Thank you, Godric.”

Godric just smiles at him. “Anytime, Harry,” he promises, and then glances over towards the door, wryness shading his features. “But I think you’ve got some explaining to do right now.”

Startled, Harry spins, eyes widening at the sight of a sheepish Ron and a bewildered Hermione standing in the doorway. They’ve clearly overheard, and Harry winces guiltily. Barely a week keeping Godric’s presence a secret and he’s already failed. “Er…”

“I could have sworn your name was Gideon,” Hermione says pointedly, stepping into the room and dragging Ron with her. “Harry, what’s going on?”

Helplessly Harry casts a look at Godric, then back at his friends. “I—you can't tell anyone, Hermione. Please.”

“They won't,” Godric says with a confidence Harry definitely doesn’t feel, all too aware of Hermione’s tendency to over-obsess and then report things to the teachers. He’s forgiven her for the incident with the Firebolt in third year, but he still remembers it.

Even so, the Founder takes a step around Harry, gesturing with one hand. The door swings closed with a soft click, even as three overstuffed couches burst into being on the floor. “Maybe I should introduce myself again. I'm Godric Gryffindor, and it is truly a pleasure to meet such inspiring members of my House.”

Harry can't remember the last time he saw Hermione look faint, or the last time she was this speechless. “Oh,” she says weakly, worried gaze sliding to Harry.

Reading the question in her gaze, Harry nods. “I saw him on the Map, and went to find him,” he explains. “It’s true, Hermione, I swear! He’s the one that found Wormtail.”

“Gryffindor,” Ron repeats, sinking down on one of the couches. “With—with the Sword, and the Hat, and being one of the Founders?”

“Yes to all of it,” Godric laughs, throwing himself down on the cushions of the second sofa. He looks as smug as a cat, and Harry can't fight a smile of his own, settling on the other end. He grabs Hermione’s arm and gently directs her towards the free couch, a little concerned by the paleness of her face.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

Hermione shakes herself. “You—and the others,” she says, realization sweeping across her face. “They're Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and…” She trails off, eyes going even wider.

Ron, following her train of thought, looks faintly sick.

“Slytherin,” Godric finishes for her, and his smile is crooked. “Yes, Solomon is Salazar. But the stories are wrong, Hermione. He’s not evil. He’s not even a bad person. He’s my best friend, and after a thousand years surely that means something.”

Ron looks deeply skeptical, while Hermione bites her lip worriedly. “But,” she says carefully, “if You-Know-Who is really Slytherin’s descendant…”

“He’s not,” Godric reassures her, the amusement clear in his voice. “Believe me, I would know.”

For reasons Harry is entirely ignorant of, Hermione flushes a faint pink and makes a sound like she’s just been bitten by something. Godric casts her a swift smile, then says, “You needn’t worry. The four of us came back to ensure this school continued, and to remove the Ministry’s influence, so you can be sure we’ve no darker motive. I would swear it on anything you wanted me to.”

“He got Wormtail,” Harry repeats, because he feels this can't be overstated. “He cleared Sirius’s name.”

“A judge and jury will clear Sirius Black’s name,” Godric corrects gently. “I simply jumpstarted the process.” He hesitates for a moment, then rises to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I need to find Helga.” Once more he touches Harry's shoulder, then nods to Ron and Hermione and strides out of the room.

Silence lingers in his wake, and Harry watches his friends a little warily. He’s never liked keeping secrets from them, even when talking to them is hard, and this is a damned big secret. He’ll understand if they’re angry, even though he really doesn’t want them to be.

“Sorry,” he says a little helplessly. “I—I've known since the first day back. He’s been helping me deal with Umbridge’s detentions, and showing me things. I wanted to tell you, but…I didn’t know how.”

“Inspiring,” Ron repeats, sounding dazed. “ _Godric Gryffindor_ thinks we’re inspiring members of his House.” He shakes his head, slumping back into the cushions, and laughs breathlessly. “I don’t blame you, mate. That’s a bloody big secret.”

Hermione glances between them, looking worried. “You're—you're sure he’s who he says he is?” she asks tentatively, and then, catching the flicker of annoyance on Harry's face, raises her hands. “Harry, I know, but don’t you think it’s just a little suspicious?”

“Less suspicious than Umbridge,” Harry points out. “They're here to get rid of her. Besides, Godric’s had plenty of opportunities to hurt me and he _hasn’t_. He’s been doing the opposite. I just—I think this is real.”

To his surprise, Hermione hesitates for a long moment, and then smiles, just a little. “Godric Gryffindor,” she says, and there's wonder in her voice. “Harry, you’ve been talking to _Godric Gryffindor_. What has he said? What is he like?”

Harry grins, relief making his head spin. They're not angry. Even Hermione says she believes him, no matter what reservations she might be hiding. That’s good enough for now. They’ll see what Godric is like soon enough. “He’s—he was a mercenary. Part of something called Falcon Company, and that’s how he met Salazar. His family was hired to guard him, and—”

It’s not a story about Godric that anyone would find in a book, but Harry particularly liked it. The thought of Godric as a young boy, already clever and bold and brave, making friends with a cold, calculating boy six years older but far less experienced, is a good one. He’d never spared much thought to the dynamics of the Founders before meeting Godric, but he likely wouldn’t have pegged Godric as the youngest. It’s fitting, though, and for all that Godric says his past is the darkest of the four, Harry finds it most admirable. He made something different of his life, stepped off the path others had set for him, that he had set for himself, and forged a new one.

After meeting him, Harry now feels rather like he can do the same.

 

 

Needing to find Helga was a bit of a white lie, Godric will admit. It’s more or less true—he does need to talk to one of the others about everything, and she’s least likely to strangle him for giving away their secret barely a week into term—but…he can't right now. Given that it’s the weekend, and he has no classes to attend, it’s the best time to deal with his suspicions regarding the Founders’ items.

He’d like to tell Helga. He really would. Godric’s used to relying on people, to having partners, which was one of the reasons their separation was so jarring. Ever since he could first hold a sword, he’s had someone to watch his back. Not all the time, not every time, but enough that it’s a habit now.

This isn’t something he can share, though, not right now. Helga, being who she is, will want to confront Salazar and Rowena, will want to talk to them and understand their sides of the story and work everything out. Godric doesn’t have time for that. Besides, he’d rather figure out what's going on by himself. After all, Salazar and Rowena have already lied once about all of this, and Godric isn’t about to give them a chance to do it again.

There's too much at stake here to show his hand early. Godric knows exactly how ruthless and cunning the other two are, knows what they would sacrifice if they thought it would keep Helga and Godric safe, and maybe he should be touched by their selflessness, but in reality Godric is just _angry_. If this is anything remotely like he suspects it is—

Well. Then he’ll have good reason to be angry, Godric thinks grimly, checking that the hallway is clear and then pulling the knife from his boot. The wall in front of him is blank except for a faint dusting of silver sparks trapped in the stone, almost glowing in the dim torchlight. The dungeons are always rather dark, but here, far from any occupied rooms and at the opposite end of the castle from the Slytherin common room, the gloom feels like it hasn’t truly been broken in years.

A prick of the blade brings blood beading to the surface of his skin. It trickles down his finger, black in the low light, and Godric reaches out and gently traces a rune for opening on the tenth brick from the floor. “I am Gryffindor, bravest of the Hogwarts Four,” he says softly. “Make way for me.”

There's a long moment of hushed stillness. Then, softly, slowly, the silver sparks slide across the stone, brightening as they go. They coalesce beneath the bloody rune, swirling as if they're caught in the grip of a whirlpool, and in their glow the corridor is lit with silver light. Godric takes a breath, touches a hand to the hilt of the sword belted at his side, and then steps forward.

Silver and stone part before him like a thin sheet of water, leaving a faint tingle in their wake, and Godric emerges from the hidden doorway on a landing. There's nothing on either side of him, just a small platform of grey stone without railings, darkness falling away into utter nothingness. The space is breathlessly silent, aged and eerie, and Godric raises his face to the blackness above. More sparks slide across it, then tumble down like falling stars, leaving light behind them. In their wake Godric can finally see the stairs he needs, one set on each side of the landing. He picks the one directly in front of him, leading down, and starts down the steps without hurrying.

A seed of anger is burning in his chest. It’s not fury, nothing so explosive. Rage, Godric thinks a little wryly. He’s never had what one would call an even temper to begin with, but it tends to burn itself out quickly, leaving reason behind. This—this is something different, something deeper. This rage is for the knowledge that Salazar’s locket is missing, and likely has been for fifty years. This is for fifty years of loneliness while Rowena and Salazar plotted and planned and left Godric and Helga in the dark. This is for the certainty inside him that there's more to this than just the four of them, more than a simple separation no matter how painful that alone would have been.

This is something bigger than the Founders, and Godric only needs to look to Salazar’s lost locket, to the fact that he’s said nothing about it, to know that. In any other situation, such a loss would unite them. They would track it down, get it back, and not worry about anything else. The very fact that Salazar has said nothing, that Rowena has said nothing, means there's far more at stake.

Maybe Salazar and Rowena have their reasons for keeping Helga and him out of the loop. Maybe there's a good reason they can't and won't mention what's happened, regardless of the danger to them that it presents. Godric doesn’t care. He’s not about to let such things rest, no matter how reckless he has to be to find the answers to this riddle.

The picture he has is already starting to come clear. The Founders’ items are threatened, at risk. Of the locket, cup, diadem, and sword, Godric can only be certain that his own is still safe. Salazar’s locket is definitely gone, and that leaves the fate of the diadem and cup unknown. Possibly Helga's goblet is safe, but…Godric’s gut tells him it isn’t. That there's a reason Salazar and Rowena separated all of them. Looking back on it now, knowing even what little he’s reasoned out, Godric can see that the decision almost smacks of panic, and not one he would associate with the Ravenclaw and Slytherin.

Only one thing he’s ever seen can make Salazar panic, and that’s a dire threat to the four of them. To Godric in particular. And this—this has to be the same.

Godric’s boot hits echoing stone, and he looks up.

There's a bridge beneath him, starting from the foot of the stairs and arching over a wide canal. The stone is golden-brown, bright in the light that feels like sun but isn’t, and the water is so clear that Godric can see right down to the runes that march down the very center of the waterway. They glow faintly, a subtle sense of power tickling Godric’s senses, and despite the circumstances he can't fight a faint smile as he strides across the bridge. On the other side is a narrow strip of stone, then another curving canal, and a second bridge. Seven bridges, seven canals in concentric circles, and in the center is a small island of green grass with a pool of silver water at its heart.

Seven is a powerful number. Like this, amplified and reflected and carefully enhanced, seven becomes Hogwarts’s support, its anchor. The castle could rebuild itself from nothing but rubble as long as this, its heart, stays intact.

It’s more than just the castle’s heart, though. Godric steps carefully onto the grass, taking a deep breath as he does. The very air hums with power here, with age and mystery and a sense of awareness. Murmuring a greeting out of long-standing habit, Godric slides to his knees at the edge of the pool, then leans forward.

“Give me a glimpse, lovely,” he murmurs. “The threads—can you still see them?”

Something flickers, like a spark leaping from a bonfire. Red in his peripheral vision, then green, then gold, then blue. The sparks twine together for a brief heartbeat before they separate, whirling out and away. Only one stays, the dart of crimson light tumbling down to limn Godric’s sword. He touches it lightly, tracing his fingers along the thin thread of magic that binds it to Hogwarts and himself in equal measure, and it sings beneath his fingertips, sweet and clear.

But the melody of it is alone. Where there should be a quartet, four distinct tones twined into a harmony, Godric’s thread is the only one that sings.

He raises his head, dread making his stomach tighten into knots, and automatically reaches out for the green thread. But his fingers stop an inch away from it, frozen with horror, because what was once a strong, bright current of magic is dark and diminished. Like some creeping blight, grey-black rot covers the green, eating away at it as acid would.

The thread that represents Salazar’s souls is dying, and Godric has never in his long life been more afraid.

Blindly, desperately, he stretches out his hands, touching gold and blue as they shimmer into being. The grey-black rot covers them as well, thick and clinging, and it smears on Godric’s fingers as he jerks back and away. Frantically, he wipes his hands on his robes, sickened by the taint of it, and then staggers to his feet. The red string flares, a pulse of magic answering his distress, but Godric dismisses the four threads with a wave and sits down hard on the foot of the bridge.

“Hell,” he whispers, digging his fingers into his hair. “Fucking hell.”

The eerie, aged peace of his surroundings weighs on him, a mockery of what it should be after what he just saw. Nausea turns his stomach, even as his heart aches in his chest like a raw brand.

The others are _dying_. Maybe not quickly, maybe not immediately, but that corruption isn’t going to go away. Someone has their items, their relics, the conduits through which they bound themselves to Hogwarts, and that person has twisted them, tainted them. Only Godric is safe, and he has little doubt that it’s because his sword has been in Hogwarts’s care for the last forty years. After all, even Salazar’s locket wasn’t safe—was in fact, judging by the amount of degradation Godric saw, the very first to be corrupted. But how? Salazar isn’t a trusting man, or a vulnerable one. To be taken off guard enough that someone managed to steal that item in particular—Godric would expect Salazar to voluntarily surrender his wand to an enemy and bare his throat before he would expect the man to allow anyone but the other Founders close enough to even _see_ his locket.

 _Voldemort_ , Godric thinks, going still as the thoughts connect. Fifty years ago, Voldemort began his rise to power, and the Founders separated. Fifteen years ago, the Dark Lord should have been killed when his curse rebounded, but he didn’t die. Or…he didn’t die _permanently_. He came back to life, as though he had never fully ceased existing. As though a piece of himself was still alive. And… that’s familiar, isn’t it?

Godric knows dark rituals, knows his curses. He’s existed longer than a lot of dark magic has, and saw much of it come into existence. And the very darkest of all, close cousin to the ritual that the Founders themselves used, is the magic that can split a soul and break it into pieces—that would do it, wouldn’t it?

Horcruxes, then. Three at least, and likely more. Definitely more, because if Voldemort made three then he wouldn’t have stopped there. Maybe he was interrupted by his death at Harry's hands, but Godric is never that lucky. There will be several others in addition to the Founders’ relics.

Raking his fingers through his hair, Godric leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees and taking a careful breath. He needs to _think_ , no matter how his head is spinning. This—this is dire, and has already been going on for far too long. With every moment the corruption spreads, Salazar, Helga, and Rowena will get weaker. They're strong, so their souls will hold out for longer than most would, but they can't last forever. Not against dark magic like this. Eventually it will take them over, and that’s not a death Godric would wish on his worst enemy, let alone the three people he loves more than life itself.

But…is there anything he can do? If Voldemort made the locket, cup, and diadem into Horcruxes, is there a way to remove the shards of his soul while leaving the Founders’ connection to Hogwarts intact? Without that, they’ll die just as surely as from the dark magic, and Godric can't think of a way around it. They’ll start to age the moment the connection is cut, and at the very most Godric would have an hour to renew the ritual that keeps them all alive. It’s not possible—the first time, it took all of them a full month to complete. There's no way to recreate it in any less time than that, not even with a thousand years’ experience.

So there has to be some other solution, something else Godric can do. He refuses to believe that the situation is hopeless, that there's nothing to be done. There are always options, always other paths to take, even if they aren’t immediately apparent. Salazar was the one who taught him that, and it’s a lesson Godric has never allowed himself to forget.

He’ll find a way. No matter what, no matter how long it takes, Godric won't give up. He’ll save them, regardless of what he has to do to accomplish it.

He thinks of Rowena dying, of Helga fading, of Salazar with his fire gone and cold earth covering him. Thinks of existing alone, without anyone beside him, of watching generations pass like a cold, weathered sentinel, and hates the very thought of it so deeply that it shakes him. Fifty years already he’s missed Salazar, missed Rowena and Helga. Fifty years he’s let them decide his path even when they weren’t present. But not this time.

Godric is a fighter, a soldier, a survivor. And even if he has to die in the process, he’ll save those he loves.

Hopefully it won't come to that. With any luck, Godric will find another way. But laying down his life for those dearest to him isn’t something he could ever regret.

He takes a breath and stands up, fingers curling automatically around the hilt of his sword. The coolness of the metal is grounding, a reminder of all the previous times he’s fought and won. This will be no different.

Decision made, mind set, Godric turns away from the stillness of the silver pool, the threads that are once again hidden from sight. He steps forward, across the bridge, and keeps his eyes trained ahead. There's no time to falter, no room for doubt. Godric has work to do and friends to save, and no man, Dark Lord or otherwise, is going to stop him.


	12. XII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll admit, I started this fic for the Salazar/Godric angle, but the Godric + Harry parts have entirely taken over my heart. I’ll also admit that most of this chapter is just me having Godric feels all over the page, so, uh, sorry about that and all. I just have a lot of emotion about stupid lonely Gryffindors, okay?

It’s not really a surprise when Godric misses breakfast. They were all up late, after all, and Helga knows just how difficult it is for Godric to wind down after a fight, no matter how brief. If a thousand years of habit hold true, he likely paced the common room until the early hours of the morning, or wandered the castle’s halls.

She hopes that he’s sleeping in, because he really does need it. Godric is well able to survive on four hours a night and less food than would keep a squirrel alive, but it’s not good for him, or anyone around him. Rowena in particular will stress and worry and finally snap, most likely at Godric, and then there will be massive fights and collateral damage and brooding on both sides. Godric is a _magnificent_ brooder, when he puts his mind to it. It’s his dramatic nature, Helga thinks a little fondly. No one else can quite match him there, though Salazar certainly tries.

When Godric fails to appear at breakfast, she puts it down to a late night, a subsequent late morning, and Godric catching up on his sleep. The others cast her concerned and pointed glances, but Helga just smiles at them and doesn’t worry.

When Godric fails to appear at lunch, and then again at dinner, Helga feels something heavy settle in her chest. She ignores Rowena’s hawk-eyed stare, Salazar’s sideways glances passed off as mere shifts of his eyes, and smiles a silent apology at Susan and Hannah before slipping away from the Hufflepuff table and heading for the doors.

A thousand years of friendship—many of them spent in this very castle—means Helga knows precisely where to find Godric when he gets in his moods. She’s not entirely certain what triggered this one, but it was likely something that Godric finds particularly upsetting. After all, with anything less he would have come to her. Small things are all right to seek assistance with, in Godric’s mind—it’s the grave ones that he tries to handle by himself.

Honestly, though Helga knows he needs his privacy, she’s never been all that good at leaving Godric be the rare times he’s overcome by moroseness. Godric is by nature a bright person, warm and caring regardless of how he’s tempered every facet of himself into a weapon. To see him any less than that makes Helga want to cry, because of the four of them Godric is the one who brought them together, who kept them that way. He was the first thread in the tapestry of Hogwarts, a pretty young boy with apple-red hair and a charmingly crooked grin, pulling Salazar and Helga and Rowena into his orbit.

After that first meeting they found reasons of their own to maintain those fledgling bonds. Helga was smitten with Rowena on sight, and Rowena with her, and Rowena and Salazar were both taken by each other’s brilliance, the same way Helga was caught by Salazar’s awkward goodness and he by her unflinching honesty. The four of them fit together like puzzle pieces, jagged edges and all, and none of them have ever forgotten that for long.

But—but Godric was the first. He dragged Salazar out of his shell, pulled Helga back to earth, harried Rowena down from her high tower. He brought them together, saved them from themselves and turned them into something far greater than they ever would have been alone.

Without Godric, they wouldn’t have any of this.

Without Godric, they might have found contentment, but Helga knows them all well enough to realize that they never would have found _happiness_.

Her footsteps echo in the empty corridor as she makes her way deeper into one of Hogwarts’s all-but-deserted wings. At this time of the evening, with everyone either eating dinner or headed back to their common rooms, there's not even a hint of life here. Helga can feel the weight of the silence, the age of it—this is one of Hogwarts’s quiet corners where her history is more tangible than ever. She breathes it in, stepping around the corner and the suit of armor there, and then pauses.

There's a wide, arching window set into the wall directly ahead of her, stained glass around the edges that fades to clear transparency towards the center. The sill is a little less than waist-high, and Godric is perched on it, leaning back against the frame with one leg tucked under him and his other foot flat on the floor. His expression is the brooding flavor of pensive Helga expected, but he’s also…drawn. Pale. There are lines in his face that Helga hasn’t seen since the last great war, and his mouth is pulled into a tight, miserable frown.

It makes her chest _ache_ , to see him so unhappy.

She’s made no attempt to hide her presence, so it’s little surprise when Godric says, “If you’ve come to yell at me about skipping dinner, I'm not in the mood.”

Well, Helga thinks a little wryly, that’s her told. She takes a breath, twisting her fingers into the soft fabric of her skirt, and then straightens her spine. She’s anything but a coward, after all, and she’s not about to back down from this fight, of all of them.

“Don’t put words in my mouth, Godric,” she reminds him, though she keeps her tone gentle. Give Godric something to fight and he’ll throw himself at it headlong and without hesitation; it’s one of the main reasons he and Rowena are always butting heads. Rowena is many things, after all, but meek is not one of them, and because she’s always ready to turn any encounter into a duel, Godric matches her.

In this, at least, Helga's tendency to hold herself back from the others’ squabbles can only help—Godric won't be expecting her to come up from behind and cut his legs out from under him, not until it’s too late.

There's a long moment of silence, and Helga can see tension sliding into the set of Godric’s shoulders, down the slumped line of his spine. Usually it would be the other way around, her presence easing him form the darkest of his thoughts, but—not this time, it seems, and that hurts just a little bit, no matter how selfish that reaction is.

“Sorry,” Godric says, and his tone is the next best thing to biting. “Was there something else you wanted to yell at me for, then?”

He’s practically spoiling for a fight, if he’s trying to pick one with her. Helga's never indulged him like that for any reason outside of necessary practice—she’s not a warrior, even if she can hold her own enough to protect those around her, and she doesn’t care to be. That’s not about to change just because Godric is in a temper, so she folds her arms over her chest and says, calm and even, “Is everything all right? After catching Pettigrew, I’d have thought you’d be happy.”

There's a long moment of silence, and then Godric shifts. He turns to face Helga, bent leg sliding down to leave him sitting on the sill with his hands braced beside him, and there's a smile on his face that sends a shiver of purely instinctive animal terror racing down Helga’s spine. It’s not wide, not sharp, but Godric’s green eyes are full of fury and grief and tempered, steel-strong rage, and that’s a look she’s _never_ seen in full before. Before she can stop herself, she takes a quick step back.

Instantly, the furious emotion slides out of Godric’s eyes, leaving them wide and startled. He stares at Helga for a moment, then laughs, bitter and rough, and shoves his hands into his hair. Fingers clench into fists as he leans forward, hiding his face, to rest his elbows on his knees.

“Sorry,” he says grimly, almost desperately. “Sorry, Helga, I'm so sorry. That wasn’t meant for you, I swear it wasn’t.”

Helga studies the slumped line of his back, then sighs softly, stepping across the space to lean against Godric’s side, sliding an arm over his shoulders and pressing a kiss to fiery locks. “Oh, fire-top. I know it wasn’t. You’d never hurt me. But I hate to see _you_ hurting. Can I help?”

Godric makes a muffled sound, nowhere near a laugh no matter how much it mimics the sound. It’s all despair and fury, tangled up with Godric’s unflinching determination. “Stars and stones, Helga, _I don’t know what to do_. Everything—everything’s gone wrong, and maybe there's a way to fix it, but I can't think of it. A thousand years of learning, ten _lifetimes_ of studying magic, of trying to be the best, the most learned, the strongest, and I'm _powerless_.”

Which would explain the brooding, Helga thinks a little wryly, underneath her concern. Godric deals well with just about anything but feeling useless. And when he does—god, the last time he did, the entire world was tearing itself apart with wars and plagues, and they still had a few hundred small children in their care.

“That’s why there's four of us, Godric,” she reminds him gently. “If we all put our heads together, I'm sure Rowena and Salazar will have some ideas.”

That gets her another laugh, as bitter as wormwood and as sharp-edged as broken glass. Godric rubs his hands over his face, then lifts his head enough to give her a crooked, teeth-bared expression that tries to pass itself off as a grin. “Rowena and Salazar? Fuck, no. They're the damned _cause_ of this, Helga! They did something stupid, then tried to fix it and made everything _worse_. We’ve spent the last fifty years apart because they were _scared_ , because they didn’t trust the two of us not to do something stupid, and for _what_? What do they have to show for it? You—” He cuts himself off sharply, mouth tightening, and transfers his gaze to the blank stone wall across from them.

There's a distinct sinking feeling in Helga's stomach. “You—you know that they did? You know _why_?” she asks unsteadily. Sliding a hand around to Godric’s cheek, she gently forces his head up, meeting green eyes wild with grief and anger. “Godric Gryffindor, if you know what this is about and are trying to keep it a secret, I swear, I will string you up by your heels in the Whomping Willow. _Tell me_.”

For a long moment, Godric blinks at her. Then, for the first time in this conversation, his expression softens. He smiles, and this one is real, if crooked and a little wry. “Oh, my fierce little bright eyes. I’d forgotten you could make that expression.”

“Because you're not often stupid enough to force me to,” Helga retorts, though she can't quite manage to make it sharp. “Godric, stop stalling. I think I have a right to know what all of this is about, seeing as I'm now the only one who doesn’t.”

Godric’s long, callused fingers press over hers, warm-hot and as comforting as ever, and Godric sighs, leaning into her touch. “Have you been feeling…weaker?” he asks quietly. “Different, at any time in the last fifty years?”

Rowena would berate him for not getting straight to the point. Salazar would turn the question back on him and try to wring out more information. Helga simply tips her head, thinking back, and then says thoughtfully, “Not that I can remember. But I haven’t exactly performed any major workings since we separated. There's not much of a call for them in the Muggle world, and I didn’t often venture out of it.”

It’s something that Rowena and Salazar have never quite understood, where Helga is concerned. But then, they're both absolutely enamored of magic in all its forms, and always immerse themselves in it no matter what time period they're in. For them, magic is fascination and wonder and all they ever need to be content. But to Helga, _people_ are the fascinating ones, and be they magical or mundane, they're what she wants to surround herself with.

Normally, Godric would smile and joke about her fondness for handcrafting, for metalsmithing and building and any job where she can get her hands dirty, but right now he just sighs, tired and hurt. “I suppose not,” he says, and then, “I—went down to the Heart. There were—things didn’t quite add up, between Salazar missing his locket and Rowena getting so upset about my sword, and I just…had a suspicion. So I checked, and…”

He buries his face in his hands again, taking a deep, shuddering breath, and Helga finds herself…alarmed. Godric is headstrong and brave and never hesitates, but this seems like it’s all but tearing him apart.

“Godric?” she asks gently, crouching a little to look at his face again. “You can tell me. You _need_ to tell me.”

“I _can't_ ,” Godric hisses, scrubbing his hands over his eyes. “Stars, Helga, how do you tell your best friend that she’s _dying_?”

Oh. Oh. Helga blinks, taking in the facts, and maybe she’s not an intellectual like Salazar or Rowena, maybe she’s not even close to their level, but the only people who have ever called her stupid haven’t known the first thing about her. “Our things,” she says slowly, because she’s always felt a little silly calling them relics. “The tethers—they're breaking?”

“Being broken,” Godric corrects, and that’s all the difference in the world, isn’t it? “I—it’s mostly conjecture at this point, but…I think Voldemort found your cup, and the locket and diadem, and made them into Horcruxes.”

For a long moment, Helga stares at him, wide-eyed and almost breathless. Then, with a soft, “Oh,” she sits down hard on the stone floor.

Expression shifting into worry, Godric slides down the wall to kneel in front of her, taking her hands in his own. “Helga?”

“I'm okay, Godric.” She gives him a small smile, squeezing his fingers gently, and adds, “I'm just…working it out. Rowena and Salazar know, then?”

Godric tips one shoulder in a half-shrug. “I would assume that’s why they sent us away, yes. Voldemort was starting his first rise to power then, and between finding out what he’d done and the fact that he was specifically targeting the Founders’ items, I think they just—panicked.”

Yes, that sounds very like something Salazar and Rowena would do, faced with a grim situation tied directly to their emotions. Neither of them has ever handled such things well, even after a thousand years.

Part of Helga wants to go and confront them, find out _why_ they thought this was a good idea, why they didn’t bother to inform her or Godric. The other part of her recognizes the fact that they had their chance to explain fifty years ago, and the time for explanations has long since passed. It’s time for action now, to find a method to fix the problem their own way. Helga takes a breath, holds it for a moment, and then breathes out, steady and slow.

“So what do we do first?” she asks firmly, meeting Godric’s leaf-green eyes. As she watches, something kindles in them, like joy or relief or maybe even hope, and she smiles.

Godric grins back at her, fierce and wild, and says, “Well, how about a field trip?”

Well. It’s likely a rather bad idea, but it also means they're doing _something_ , so Helga nods readily. “Where to?”

There's the shadow of a lion in Godric’s expression as he rises, offering Helga his hands. She takes them, and he easily pulls her to her feet. “Lots of places, if we plan things right. Voldemort’s been untouchable for far too long. We need to send him a message, send him running scared. I know madmen like this. If he’s scared, he’ll be angry. And if he’s angry, he’s going to start making mistakes.”

Godric’s thoughts, at least, Helga can follow, even if Salazar and Rowena are often a mystery to her. “So we tell him that we know his deepest secret,” she translates. “We leave enough hints that it’s obvious to him, but everyone else just has breadcrumbs to follow. It’ll be enough to make him panic, certainly.”

Godric presses a showy kiss to the knuckles of her right hand, grinning fiercely. “Exactly. And with some luck, and a few alterations to my monitoring spell, we’ll be able to follow him right to the Horcruxes.”

Helga can't help it; she laughs. “Oh, fire-top. We’re going to make Rowena and Salazar so angry. You know that, don’t you?”

“Half the fun, bright eyes,” Godric parries. He glances out the window, towards the lake, and says, “We’re going to need to know who was accused of being a Death Eater last time. I…know someone who can help.”

That particular tone means that Godric is bracing himself for her to be angry with him. Helga makes a silent promise with herself not to be, and says, “All right. Lead the way, Godric.”

After a moment of searching, Godric pulls a scrap of paper from a pocket of his robe. He taps it with a finger, making black words rise to the surface, and then quickly folds it into a tiny origami bird. Another breath of magic brings it to life, and it flutters off down the corridor.

“Come on,” Godric urges. “They’ll meet us in the library.” Out of habit, he offers his arm, and Helga smiles fondly as she takes it, squeezing the lean, hard muscle of his forearm.

“My strong, brave knight, ready to escort me anywhere,” she teases, and when Godric laughs it’s a greater relief than anything that’s come before it. Things might be grim, but this isn’t the end of them. Not by a long shot.

“To the gates of hell and back again, milady,” Godric says grandly, grinning, and though most of the attitude is show Helga knows the words are entirely sincere.

 

 

Godric keeps his eyes on Helga when Harry rounds the corner of the bookshelves in their secluded section of the library, Hermione and Ron right on his heels. There's a flicker of surprise on her face, but instead of being followed by irritation as he half-expects, the startled expression slides sideways into fondness, and she laughs.

“Oh Godric,” she says, amused and warm as she grins at him. “I don’t know why I ever expected something different.” Without waiting for a response, she rises gracefully to her feet, tucking her honey-colored curls behind one ear, and smiles at the three students as they come to an awkward halt in front of the table. “Hello!” she offers cheerfully. “I'm Helga Hufflepuff. Harry, Ron, and Hermione, right? It’s very nice to meet the three of you.”

“Er, sorry we’re late,” Harry says, glancing over at Godric. “Quidditch practice.”

“There's no hurry,” Godric assures him, nudging the chair next to him out in invitation. With a swift smile, Harry drops into it, and the other two take that as a sign to sit as well. “What we’re planning is best done after full dark anyway. How was practice?”

Harry and Ron trade grimaces, and Ron says gloomily, “Lousy.”

Helga hides another grin behind her hand, though her eyes are sympathetic. Hermione rolls her eyes a little where the two boys can't see, but pats Ron’s arm and says soothingly, “Well, it was just the first one, right?”

Ron doesn’t look entirely cheered, but his eyes go to Godric and he swiftly changes the subject. “Is something happening?” he asks curiously.

Godric gives him a sharp-edged grin, leaning back in his chair. “Not yet,” he says. “But soon. Helga and I are currently planning a bit of…well. Bearding the lion in his den, so to speak, only this lion just happens to be a host of Death Eaters.”

Helga gives him an exasperated but fond look. “Our first move was against the Death Eater who brought Voldemort back,” she clarifies, when Ron and Harry just look confused, and Hermione looks wary. “Now we’re going to send the rest running scared.”

“And,” Godric adds, “we were rather hoping you three had an idea of who Voldemort keeps in his inner circle.”

“I remember,” Harry says quietly, and his eyes are dark. “They—Voldemort called them, in the graveyard last year. He named…seven of them. Six, aside from Wormtail.”

Silently, Godric reaches over under the cover of the table to touch Harry's knee. The boy’s gaze snaps up, sliding to him, and Godric smiles wryly. “We might not be able to put them in Azkaban just yet, but it will come,” he promises quietly. “They’ll get what they deserve, Harry, all of them. You have my word.”

Relief slides into bottle-green eyes, and Harry smiles back, just faintly. He swallows, then says, “It was—Avery, Nott, Crabbe, Goyle, Lucius Malfoy, and…Macnair. I don’t know the others’ first names, except for Malfoy.”

“Not a problem,” Helga assures him, tapping her fingers thoughtfully on the tabletop. “That much we can manage to find on our own. Most of them will be the heads of the families, and I'm sure they all know each other outside of Voldemort’s service. We can hit Malfoy tonight—that should be a big enough sign to start with.”

The itch to move is in Godric’s blood, pulling his muscles tight. The mere fact that there's a plan, something to be done, is enough to push down the anger and fear of learning about the Horcruxes. Maybe it’s not completely buried, but it’s distant enough that he can function, and that’s all he needs.

“Can we help?” Harry asks, and his expression is fierce. “Godric, this is—”

“Something we’ve already got in the works,” Godric interrupts gently. “People have seen the Heir of Gryffindor; this is just another step. Honestly, Harry, there's nothing to be done right now. I'm going to make a show of things, maybe carve a few threats into a stone, but otherwise, we’re not going out to start something. This is just…goading.”

Harry looks faintly dissatisfied, but nods. “All right.”

With a faint smile, Godric catches his wrist and squeezes gently. “I promise, as soon as things start getting interesting, I’ll let you know. You’ve run into Voldemort the most, after all, so we’ll need your help.”

“All right,” Harry repeats, but the discontent is gone, replaced with another faint smile, and Godric smiles back before letting go.

“Are all four of you going?” Hermione asks, her gaze flickering back and forth between Godric and Helga. “I—can we meet them?”

It takes effort for Godric to hide his wince. “Er, not quite yet. I’d like to live a little longer, thanks, and Rowena won't appreciate me spilling our secrets so easily.”

Helga snorts. “She won't appreciate this, either,” she reminds him with amusement. “Godric, as soon as she sees the paper tomorrow she’s going to have our heads.”

“But she likes yours where it is,” Godric reminds her, putting a deliberate edge of lechery in his tone. “Makes it easier for you to _give_ her h—”

“Godric Gryffindor! Finish that sentence and I will finish _you_!” Helga hisses, cheeks flushing pink. She pointedly doesn’t look at the three bemused spectators across the table.

Godric gives her a lazy grin. “Fine, fine, but I'm fully aware of just what we’re risking, thank you. I'm definitely going to keep my sword close at hand for the next few days. The next time Rowena comes after me, it’s definitely not going to be with a transfigured knitting needle.”

“I thought you were friends?” Ron asks, faintly suspicious. “Is Slytherin—”

Helga laughs, though not unkindly. “Of course we’re friends,” she says, warm and firm. “We’d hardly get so angry at each other if we weren’t. But there's—well. A difference of opinion, of sorts, about how we should do all of this. Godric and I have always been the kind to face things head-on, so I suppose they're right to worry. Still, this is the best way to get results, and we’re not planning to get caught.”

“You're going to drive the Order absolutely starkers,” is Ron’s frank assessment. “They’ve been going the slow and steady route, staying a step ahead, and you're really, really not.”

“I've been accused of a lot of things,” Godric says, amused. “Being slow to act has never been one of them. But we’ve faced Dark Lords before and survived. Voldemort might be the most recent, but he’s hardly the worst. The Middle Ages gave rise to some particularly nasty ones, even if history’s mostly forgotten them.”

Hermione looks torn between following that line of thought and circling back. She bites her lip, glancing at the surrounding books with clear longing, then visibly reins herself in and asks, “What exactly is it you're planning to do?”

Godric glances over at Helga, and she looks back, meeting his eyes with a considering expression. It firms, shifts into silent agreement, and Godric raises a brow, asking if she’s sure. Helga smiles reassuringly, and turns back to the students. “Voldemort made…devices,” she says. “He used very, very Dark magic, forbidden since it was created, and killed people to do it. Those devices are what’s keeping him alive, what let him come back. We’re going to destroy the pieces of soul he left in them, but first we have to find them. So we’re going to tell him that we know, and when he rushes to protect the devices, he’ll lead us straight to them.”

“There's a monitoring spell,” Godric adds, seeing the sudden doubt that slides over Ron’s face. “It covers almost all of the British Isles, from point to point. I laid it, so I can tweak it to look for one magical signature. I’ll have to get close enough to a Death Eater to touch their mark so that I can find Voldemort in particular, but it should work.”

“And if it doesn’t?” Hermione asks warily.

That’s the part Godric never allows himself to ask, even as he makes plans for it. He gives her a crooked, humorless grin and a tip of one shoulder in answer, and says, “That’s a bridge to cross later, if it becomes necessary. I’d rather focus on doing everything possible to make sure this one _does_ work.”

Hermione doesn’t look entirely satisfied with that answer, but nods. Godric lets his expression shift into something a little more comforting and pushes to his feet. “Well, we’d best get going, and I'm sure you have homework to finish up. Thank you, Harry. Again, you've saved us a lot of time and trouble, and I appreciate it.”

“So do I,” Helga adds, beaming, as she follows him up. “If any of you ever need to talk, I'm more than happy to listen, or help you with whatever I can. Any friend of Godric’s is a friend of mine.”

Ron’s ears go dull red, but he nods. Hermione looks like she wants to ask more questions, but she allows Ron to tug her away with one last wistful glance. Giving Godric a knowing smile, Helga follows them towards the main doors, leaving Harry and Godric alone.

There's a long moment of silence as Harry studies the top of the table, and then he asks quietly, “You're sure there isn’t anything else I can do?”

“Not at this moment,” Godric tells him gently, leaning against the edge of the table and folding his arms over his chest. He’d rather rest one hand on his sword, a motion that’s all but ingrained after eight hundred years of being able to carry a blade on his hip, but there's no chance he can get away with carrying one of Hogwarts’ relics as he is right now. “The names are help enough. Helga and I—we’re not asking Salazar and Rowena for permission in this, even though we should, and I don’t want to drag you into it without knowing all the angles.”

Seeing Harry opening his mouth again, he raises a hand to stop the words. “I'm not trying to treat you like a child, Harry. I wouldn’t even be involving Helga in this if she hadn’t cornered me and forced a confession. There's so much at stake here. I know my own faults, and I know the dangers of acting on this information right now. Seeing the threats in the shadows—that’s Salazar’s job. Until he gets his head on straight and decides to stop keeping secrets, I have to work without him, and it’s like wearing blinders. I know we just met, Harry, but you're a friend, and I don’t want to endanger you needlessly.”

That, at least, gets him a real smile, and Harry nods, rising from his chair. “I—you're a friend, too, Godric,” he says awkwardly. “You’ll be careful, right?”

“Careful as a Gryffindor can be,” Godric promises cheerfully, and then laughs at the face Harry pulls. He considers the boy for a moment, short and gangly in his oversized hand-me-downs and black-framed glasses, and thinks of the careful non-mention of his Muggle family, the warmth in his voice when speaking of his godfather, the complete lack of anything similar to a complaint in the face of important things. It’s a complete whim, but a heartfelt one, that drives him to say, “Harry, I know it’s a little early, but…if your godfather hasn’t been legally cleared by Christmas, would you like to come stay with me over the break?”

Wide green eyes blink once, twice, again, but the boy is speechless.

“You can invite your friends,” Godric adds quickly, cursing his impulsiveness, “and I understand if you’ve already got plans, but I have a house near the village where I was born, and it’s beautiful in the winter. There's—it would be a quiet Christmas, but maybe you’d enjoy it? And you needn’t stay for the whole thing if you don’t want to, just—”

He’s babbling. It’s an unfortunate affliction when he’s particularly nervous, and Godric forces himself to snap his teeth shut before any more words can get out, offering Harry a crooked, apologetic smile for the flood of information.

“I—you want to spend Christmas with _me_?” Harry asks after a long minute of silence, and his expression is bewildered.

That, at least, is a reaction Godric can deal with. He chuckles, inclining his head. “I would,” he affirms easily. “Harry, you're—well. I don’t have any descendants of my own, but…if I did, I’d like to think that they’d be like you. Maybe that they’d _be_ you. I know I'm not anything like your father, and this whole situation makes it a little strange, but I’d like us to be friends at the very least. Christmas is one of my favorite times, and it’s nice to share it with someone else. I’d like that someone to be you, if you're not opposed.”

“I'm not,” Harry says quietly, honestly. He hesitates for a moment, then looks up, and there's a smile spreading into a grin on his face. “I’d like that, Godric. I’d _really_ like that. Sirius probably wants to see me at some point over the break, but spending the rest of it with you would be…brilliant.”

“Then it’s settled,” Godric agrees cheerfully, grinning right back. “Christmas in Godric’s Hollow. Merlin, I haven’t been this excited for a holiday in a long while. It’ll be fantastic.”

There's a look of near wonder on Harry's face, but before he can say any more Helga pointedly clears her throat where she’s hovering just out of earshot. Godric glances at her, then back at Harry, and says warmly, “Later, then.”

“Bye, Godric,” Harry answers warmly. “Be careful, yeah?”

Giving the boy a lazy salute, Godric turns, heading for Helga. She levels an arch look at him, but he waves her away with some exasperation. “Quiet, you.”

“You know,” Helga says mock-thoughtfully, because she’s never been deterred by his opinions, “Lily Evans had red hair. Almost the same shade as yours, going by the pictures.”

Godric eyes her warily. “Lots of people have red hair,” he counters.

“But yours is _particularly_ red.” Helga beams innocently at him. “You know, as long as we prove that Voldemort’s returned, the rest of our original plan is open to interpretation. Should the Heir of Gryffindor want to claim kinship to an orphaned boy, well, who’s to tell him that he’s wrong?”

“You're a bad influence,” Godric informs her dryly, though the thought is most certainly tempting. “If Salazar and Rowena could hear you now, they’d be pulling their hair out.”

“Good thing they have so much extra, isn’t it,” is her cheerful response. She shakes her curls back from her face, then offers Godric both a mischievous smile and her arm. “Shall we go beard a Death Eater in his home, good sir?”

“Indeed we shall, milady,” Godric answers, delicately taking her arm as a lady of good breeding would, and dipping an aborted curtsey just to make Helga laugh. A moment’s thought, and he sighs discontentedly. “Ah, damn it. If Malfoy Senior were named Draco too, there’d be a splendid joke in there about bearding the dragon. Foiled.”

Helga giggles, shakes her head, and pulls him down the hall.

 

 

It’s sleeplessness that drives Salazar to the top of the Astronomy Tower just before full dark. There's no class yet, but the skies are mostly clear, dotted here and there with low clouds. Winter will be on them with force soon enough, so Salazar takes a moment to appreciate the sight, resting his elbows on the edge of the low wall and letting out a long, slow breath. The brisk breeze billows his hair around him as it sweeps down from the surrounding hills, and he lifts his chin, letting it pass over him in a chilly, head-clearing rush.

As it stands, there's nothing for him to do. Research has stalled, even the most promising avenues of study resulting in dead ends, and his head is full of white noise he can't quite manage to filter out. Once upon a time he would have gone to Godric to clear his mind, to take a step away from the problem so he could see it clearly. Despite the kiss in the tunnel, though, Godric is avoiding him. Maybe _because_ of the kiss in the tunnel, honestly; Godric has ever been an impulsive creature, even after a thousand years of life. Kissing Salazar was likely a whim, an urge not entirely understood, and now he’s regretting it.

The thought hurts, twinges faintly. Salazar isn’t used to being a regret, not to Godric. Likely he should find his friend, sort things out between them as much as they can be sorted, but…

He remembers once, shortly after his return the first time he left Hogwarts, he’d gone looking for Godric and found him in Helga's Room. There had been battered training dummies everywhere, slashed with sword-strokes and beaten with brute strength, and in the midst of the destruction sat Godric, leaning back against one wall and carefully, single-mindedly bandaging his bleeding hands.

Salazar had gone to him, unable—as ever—to keep his distance, and knelt beside him. “You know,” he’d said, because he was a fool then, “there are charms for that.”

Godric hadn’t looked up. He’d kept bandaging, even as he said mildly, evenly, “Yes, Salazar, I'm aware, but that would rather negate the point of beating my fists bloody in the first place.”

Amazing, then and now, how Godric can turn even the simplest statement into something very like a threat.

Salazar hadn’t understood, then. He’d thought Godric was simply angry, taking it out on lifeless dolls. And maybe parts of that assumption were correct, but…he’d been missing the whole picture. Godric was taking it out on dummies, yes, but it was to protect Salazar himself. To protect him from Godric’s temper, wild and deadly, so close to the breaking point that he’d needed the edge of pain, the release of violence, to keep it from simmering over. For weeks afterwards his bandaged hands had reminded what he was capable of, what he could do if he ever truly lost control, and so he’d restrained himself until they had made some sort of amends between them.

It wasn’t the last time Salazar drove him to such lengths, and Salazar suspects that something similar has happened now. He well remembers the temper in Godric’s eyes down in the tunnel, the rage and pain like a trapped sun kept in check by will alone, the way Godric looked so weary when Salazar flinched away from him. He’s _certain_ that’s what has happened now. Likely Godric doesn’t even think of it in such a way, but it’s undeniably his manner of coping.

Salazar has never, ever wanted to be the cause of Godric’s pain.

He takes a breath and looks away, looks towards the darkened horizon as more clouds roll in, and forces himself not to move.

Maybe he doesn’t want to hurt Godric, but he wants to lose him even less. To recklessness, to Voldemort, to some suicidal gesture meant to save thousands—in no way, ever. Regardless of how many people are in it, the world would be practically empty without Godric’s fire to light it.

He’ll keep going, keep trying. There's nothing in Salazar that will ever stop looking for a way to save Godric, and he’s hardly about to let a few setbacks halt him for long.

Taking another breath of night-cold air, he turns away, and just misses the sight of a thestral rising above the trees, two familiar figures on its back.


	13. XIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Several people have asked about whether I'm pairing Harry with anyone here—there's a bit of an answer in the last section, if you squint a bit. Also implications of WolfStar, because that’s canon, right?

“Well, that’s not pretentious at all,” Godric drawls, casting an assessing glance over Malfoy Manor as it spreads out beneath them.

Helga stifles a laugh behind one hand. “Be nice, Godric. Not everyone can have Salazar’s taste, you know.”

“Or taste, full-stop.” He squints at a pale speck moving along the top of the tall hedge that edges the drive. “Is that a—it is. White peacocks. Of course. What else would be pretentious enough? And on that note, Salazar? _Taste_? Are you forgetting that this is the man who ever-so-causally put a giant rendering of _his face_ in the middle of his secret chamber?”

 That at least earns him a roll of Helga's eyes. “Oh, hush, Godric, you like his face well enough.” She leans around him a little, trying not to overbalance as she moves against the beat of the thestral’s wings, and murmurs a quiet word. Sliver light flickers over her eyes like a veil, then burns away, and she says, “Heavy warding as far as I can see, and sensing and animation charms on the gate, but they look like they're inscribed on a Silent Guardian ward from the mid-1600s.”

“Someone’s a traditionalist. Which we likely should have expected, given Malfoy Senior’s current occupation.” Godric frowns, trying to recall the specifics. “Silent Guardian…isn’t that the one—?”

“With the face in the wall? Or the gate, in this case,” Helga finishes for him. “Yes, unless they’ve made changes I can't see.”

Godric makes a distracted noise of acknowledgement, though most of his attention is on the memory of that particular warding layout. “I think—yes. That one was scrapped by professional ward-builders as soon as something better came along, because of a frequent instability in the…east-west nexus? No, the north-south, because it uses runes that have a lunar influence, and they tend to wane with the moon.”

“Easy enough to conjure the right moonlight,” Helga confirms, looping an arm around his waist as he urges the thestral in the right direction. “Do we want to shatter the ward while we’re inside, or leave it up?”

Shattering it would be a pretty statement indeed, Godric thinks. Power and brash antagonism, coupled with blatant challenge. Leaving it be—that’s a statement, too, though a subtler one. It means no one is safe, that no wards can keep them out. Then again, Godric’s already used that one Apparating directly into the Ministry Atrium. It’s a good idea to change things up a little.

“Break it,” he decides. “Can you manage it? I’ll distract them for you.”

“I could do it even if you didn’t.” Helga sounds slightly miffed, and she pinches the inside of his forearm through his tunic. Godric yelps, though he manages to keep it quiet, and doesn’t argue the point. He knows very well how strong Helga can be.

“Right then,” he says cheerfully, as the mare lands hard and trots a few steps, then stops. “I’ll find the nexus, you start up your charm. Then we slip in, I make a show of it, and you start breaking things subtly. I like this plan.”

“Oh, fire-top,” Helga says, shaking her head. She slides off, landing lightly, and draws her wand. A brief murmur, a complicated flourish, and the light around them changes slowly, bleeding away.

The change brings with it a faint shimmer in the air above the grass, right along the edge of the wall. Godric leaves the thestral to her own devices and traces it back, watching as the warding on the stone begins to shift and take on a pale glow. Too many moon-based runes in one anchoring point, and Winifred would have had the head anyone stupid enough to do that under her watch, but apparently these ward-builders didn’t have such a thorough teacher.

The nexus rests right in the center of the wall that runs from north to south, another bit of sloppiness that has Godric rolling his eyes, but it’s still easy enough to freeze it where it is, leaving the entire wall vulnerable and unprotected. Quickly, Godric motions Helga over, then laces his fingers together. Helga puts her foot in the cup of his hands and jumps, and Godric adds his strength to the motion. She catches the top of the wall, slides over, and drops down. Godric hears the thump of her landing but nothing else, and leaps up, digging his fingers into a crack in the stone. One hard kick of his boot against the bricks and he has enough momentum to grab the top, roll across, and drop neatly to the grass on the other side.

“I always have so much fun when we’re together, Godric,” Helga murmurs when he rises, and she’s grinning in the darkness of her hood, eyes bright with mischief.

“Always a pleasure to be of service,” Godric tells her, grinning right back. He studies the path to the manor, judging their possible approaches. They're on the far side of the hedges that line the drive, well away from whatever booby traps paranoid Malfoy forefathers may have placed, and that means there's far less danger of being spotted right now.

Then again, being spotted is rather the point, isn’t it?

“With the north-south nexus frozen, the east-west one will be unstable, won't it?” Helga asks, her eyes making the same scan, though her attention is on the far wall. “Wards like this are self-sustaining, but rely on balance, if I remember correctly.”

“Right,” Godric confirms. “If you hit the other one hard enough, it will start a cascade effect that will take down all the rest of the defenses, even the ones only incidentally tied to the Silent Guardian base. Give me seven minutes to wake the household, and then you can start.”

“That’s about how long it will take me to get over there if I'm being sneaky, so it’s perfect timing.” Helga taps herself on the head with her wand and fades from sight. It’s only long practice that lets Godric spot the faint shimmer in the air that marks her presence, and he watches until she’s halfway to the edge of the manor. Then he reaches into the pocket of his coat and pulls out the handful of origami animals he had folded on their trip. Lions, all of them, and as perfect as he can get them.

Dueling is one of Godric’s great loves, and it’s largely about strength, but it’s also about misdirection. Anyone can fight, but to fight _well_ there always has to be some manner of surprising your opponent, taking them unaware, and for all that cunning is Salazar’s department, Godric can be very good at it when he needs to. He’s showy and bold and knows it, and he’s more than capable to using his strengths while still coming in from behind them with something that few expect of him. This will be similar, because Malfoy is a Slytherin and expects him to be a Gryffindor, without any of the subtleties that the term should imply.

As the tiny paper lions fall, Godric murmurs a charm, and they shift and change and grow. An entire pride of lions and lionesses settles on the grass around him, sleek, deep gold bodies accented with dark red fur, their golden eyes hungry and voices low but fierce. A touch of Godric’s will sends them loping up towards the manor, lean wraiths in the darkness and pale moonlight, and somewhere in the midst of the hedges the peacocks start screaming.

Godric follows after them, left hand on the hilt of his sword, wand in his right. No matter how many times Rowena yells at him for using his non-dominant hand for his wand, it’s the habit of a thousand years and not one Godric is about to break. A sword requires more finesse than a wand, after all, no matter how Rowena and Salazar would like to claim otherwise. His strides are long, eating up the ground, and as the main door flies open he draws his blade with a flourish.

The lions roar, leaping for the two men who appear in the doorway, one more familiar than the other. Godric grins wickedly at the sight of Severus Snape standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Lucius Malfoy, casting curses at the pride as it seethes around the steps like a red-gold tide.

“Well, well,” he says, and two pairs of eyes snap up to him, going wide. “Severus Snape. I hadn’t thought to get so lucky as to find you here. All I wanted was Malfoy.”

Malfoy goes white with what Godric thinks is more fury than fear, and casts a vicious curse at the closest lioness. She leaps lightly aside, then snarls a dangerous warning, but the lord ignores her. “You're the man calling himself the Heir of Gryffindor,” he sneers. “What business have you here?”

“Just delivering a message,” Godric says lightly. “That mark on your arm—may I see it? I've business with your master.”

“I have no master,” Lucius retorts. “You’ll find nothing here to interest you, so leave before I call the Aurors.”

Godric whirls his wand around his fingertips, casually careless. “Hm, I think not. You see, Lord Malfoy, I know _exactly_ what happened in that graveyard a year ago. Avery, Nott, Crabbe, Goyle, yourself, and Macnair—and that’s just who I’ll start with. All of Voldemort’s Death Eaters will fall, I assure you. One after the other, just like dominoes. And then—then I will find your Dark Lord, and I’ll cut off his head for all of those he’s killed, for all the pain he’s caused.”

“A noble sentiment,” Snape says silkily, laying a restraining hand on Lucius’s arm, though his eyes never leave Godric. “But you will find no Death Eaters here, I promise you.”

“None?” Godric repeats, faintly mocking. “On the contrary, I've already found two. Three, if we count your lovely wife, Lord Malfoy, hiding in the shadows of the door.” He pauses, letting that linger a moment, and then adds, “It’s such a shame your son isn’t in residence. Then we could raise the number to four.”

This time, the fury on Lucius’s face is written out in bold and clear to see. “My son is innocent! He’s done nothing!”

“Not yet,” Godric judges, eyes on Lady Malfoy’s face as she lingers in the darkness beyond the threshold. Her eyes are wide, scared, and she’s watching him as if he’s the monster from her nightmares come to life. It’s a good thing Godric became used to that expression long ago. “But you want glory, the power and praise of your master. Will you give him your son to get it? Voldemort has already fallen once, Malfoy. I would not be so foolish as to trust that he will not fall again. Dark Lords always do.”

“What _exactly_ is it that you want?” Snape asks coldly, eyes narrowing. “I warn you now, however you captured Pettigrew, it will not be sufficient to take us.”

Godric laughs, waving a hand, and the lions split, loping away into the darkness. Somewhere, a peacock screams again, and the largest male turns immediately, following the sound. Really, Godric hopes the Malfoys don’t mind losing a few birds. Better than losing their gardeners, at least. “Want?” he echoes, and takes a step forward, sweeping his sword up. Both men tense, but he ignores the implied threat in their raised wands and keeps moving. “Nothing more or less than a fractured, scattered soul, Professor Snape. I've found the pieces, but your master is a small, loud dog biting at heels, so terribly ineffectual. I take away his hands and he can't even protect himself. Isn’t it a tragedy?”

He calculates how much time he’s spent, deciding he has a few more seconds to taunt them, and allows himself a grin. “Tell me, friends, has Voldemort let you in on his greatest secret? Has he showed you the locket, the cup? Or are you blindly in awe of his power, kept in the dark like good little pawns? Because I've seen them, and they're beautiful. Well worth a look, should he ever trust you. Not that I believe he will.”

A shiver down his spine, a current of familiar magic, and Godric blesses Helga for her sensibility. He lunges, too fast for either of the men before him, and whirls right between them. His sword skims cloth as it comes up, deflecting the curse Narcissa hurls at him, and he ducks behind Lucius and locks an arm around his throat, wand-tip resting lightly against his temple.

Malfoy’s left hand jerks up, attempting to grab his arm, but Godric shifts his grip enough to catch his wrist in the same hand. “Easy, easy,” he says, half a warning and half a taunt, and flicks his sword in a smooth, casual gesture. A streak of crimson light flies away, and it’s nothing but a bit of witchfire given motion and speed, but the instant it strikes the warded air over the wall, there's a deep, resounding _crack_. Light spreads out, warm and golden and hungry, eating up every last ounce of protection around the manor, and the disappearance is actually tangible. It leaves the air lighter, echoingly empty and cold, and Godric chuckles at the look on Lucius’s face.

“I'm stronger and wiser than your lord can know,” he murmurs to the stiff and silent man, though he expects Snape can hear him as well. “I have his secrets, and they will be his downfall. Tell him he’s lucky I would rather take out the foot soldiers first, smoke him out like a rat from a burning building, or his head would be mine already. That I swear on my blood and name. Tell me, Malfoy, where _you_ will stand in this war. I’ll be back to get your answer.”

A step back, a twist, a crack, and he appears right next to Helga where she’s seated on the lawn, a juvenile lioness resting her head in Helga's lap. “Very intimidating,” she says with a smile, looking up at him, and her eyes are warm. “I particularly liked the yappy little dog comparison.”

“Thank you, I felt that was quite inspired,” Godric agrees, sheathing his sword and shooing the lioness away, then offering Helga his hand. “Given that Voldemort has spent the last four years getting stymied by a preteen boy, I thought his ego could use a little help.”

Helga laughs, letting him pull her to her feet. “And that was quite a lot of help indeed. You managed to touch the mark?”

Godric grimaces, remembering the dark, thick feel of that magic under his fingertips when he grabbed Malfoy’s wrist. “Unfortunately. It’s blood magic tied to the base of a modified Protean Charm, like we thought, and easy enough to modify. Next time the Mark activates, I’ll be able to link Voldemort’s magic to the sensing ward.”

“Clever,” Helga approves, brushing off her leggings and then turning to the wall. A wave of her hand makes the stone melt away like water in the sun, revealing the thestral waiting patiently on the other side. “Do you think it will be tonight?”

“Most definitely.” Godric glances at the sky, estimating the hour. It can't be much past midnight, and that leaves plenty of time for Lucius to contact Voldemort and relay their message. Which is all well and good, but there's another message Godric wants to send, too. Before he steps through the gap, he turns, flicks his wand out, and sends a burst of deep grey magic sweeping over the wall of the manor. It sinks into the stone, sliding around towards the front, and Godric smiles, entirely pleased with himself.

“Coming, Godric? Or do I have to leave you here?” Helga asks impishly, and Godric turns to find she’s already climbed onto the thestral’s back, settling in behind the mare’s wings.

“Patience is a virtue, bright eyes,” he reminds her cheekily, and laughs when she swats at him. Getting a hand in the mare’s silky mane, he pulls himself on behind her, then grips with his knees as the thestral takes three steps of a trot and launches herself into the air.

“Like you know anything at all about patience,” Helga calls back over the sound of the wind.

“I _could_ ,” Godric defends. “I just don’t care to. Patience is boring.”

“Much better to be attacked by Rowena forthwith than draw out the anticipation?”

“It’s like you're reading my mind, Helga. Let’s hurry back before she notices, though—my patience should last until the morning, if I push it.”

Helga laughs at him, but Godric notices that she doesn’t protest, either.

 

 

The fact that this is the second Order meeting called in as many days keeps Sirius from protesting the early hour, even though three in the morning isn’t anywhere close to a humane hour unless you're partying and haven’t gone to bed yet. For a man on the wrong side of thirty-five, with all too many sleepless nights from nightmares behind him, it’s cruel and unusual punishment to have to see Snape’s smug face right now.

Not, Sirius will admit, that he looks anywhere near to smug at the moment. If anything he’s closer to pale, and he keeps fingering the long slash in the side of his robes as they wait for the last few stragglers to arrive. A few seats to his right, Dumbledore looks serious even in his candy-pink and lavender robes, with fluffy slippers on the wrong feet and his hair and beard askew. Sirius glances down the table, picking out sleepy but familiar faces, and some that look all too alert—namely the Aurors, which can't be a good sign. Tonks in particular looks like she’s had far too much coffee in the past day, all but vibrating in her chair, and Kingsley is sporting the exhausted slump of a man who hasn’t sat down in far too long.

“Well?” he demands as Hestia Jones, the last to arrive, finally settles in her seat. “What's this all about, Snape?”

Snape sneers at him unpleasantly, folding his arms over his chest, but doesn’t try to pick a fight with every eye on him. “Lucius Malfoy was attacked a few hours ago,” he says grimly. “I was present on business, and met the man who claims to be the Heir of Gryffindor.”

There's a flurry of muted murmurs, somewhere between excited and suspicious, and Sirius can see the interest spark in Dumbledore’s eyes. “You're certain it was him, Severus?”

With a sharp snort, Snape leans back in his chair. “Such blatant idiocy could only belong to a Gryffindor,” he says dismissively. “If he’s not who he claims to be, I will be astonished. But he had a message to leave with Lucius, and when we reported it, it made the Dark Lord…unhappy.”

 _Put him in a towering rage_ , Sirius translates, and frowns. Because surely it wasn’t a threat to Malfoy that would manage that—the message must have been for Voldemort directly.

“What did he say?” Kingsley asked, dragging a notebook and quill out of his pockets. “A threat?”

“Obliquely,” Snape confirms, looking even further from pleased than usual. “He claimed to know Voldemort’s greatest secret, and referred to it several times, though he never said what it was. And he threatened to reveal all of the Death Eaters and cut off Voldemort’s head when they meet face to face.”

“Inspiring,” Sirius mutters, and hears Remus’s soft snort. “What do you say we sit back and let him?”

It earns him a loud scoff from Snape, and a biting, “I wouldn’t expect an idiot _mutt_ to understand, Black, but the Dark Lord’s rage will wash over everything he touches. If you think—”

“I believe,” Dumbledore says quietly, cutting them off as he steeples his hands before him, “that we should attempt to speak with this man and discover what he knows. If he has found Voldemort’s weakness, his assistance will be invaluable.”

“You’ll have to find him before the Ministry does,” Tonks points out, tugging on a spiky lock of pink hair. “We’ve been scouring every inch of the country looking for him.”

“Though nothing has turned up yet,” Kingsley points out, pocketing his quill again and rising to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me, Albus, I need to send a squad to Malfoy Manor.” Apparently seeing Snape’s objection before he can voice it, the wizard holds up a hand. “From an anonymous source’s tip, of course. I take it there's enough visible damage to give us cause?”

Snape huffs, but almost looks _amused_. Sirius is truly shocked. “A pride of red and gold lions running around on the grounds, terrorizing the fauna,” he says. “As well as a complete absence of any and all wards on the house or property and a fresh engraving on the façade that reads ‘Justice will come for all Death Eaters’.”

At that, Tonks scrambles to her feet, looking gleeful. “Kingsley, think we can swing a search of the house while we’re there?” she asks, hardly noticing when she knocks over her chair and Remus has to catch it before it can hit the ground. “I bet you two Galleons we find enough Dark objects to at least bring the bastard in on possession charges.”

Kingsley grins, white against his dark skin. “There's always the chance the attacker left some kind of clue within the manor. Let’s see what we can do,” he agrees, and heads for the Floo with his partner close behind.

Dumbledore watches them go over his glasses, expression gently amused, and then turns back to Snape. “There was no clearer mention of this secret?” he asks.

“Talk of souls,” Snape says, clearly dismissive. “He explicitly mentioned a locket and cup, and asked if the Dark Lord had shown them to us, but I've never heard of anything similar.”

Solemn thoughtfulness comes over Dumbledore’s features, and he looks down to study his hands. “Curious,” he murmurs, then looks up, scanning faces around the table. “Please alert me if you hear anything regarding this man, even simple rumors. I would prefer this be one mystery we not let linger. If we are both working against Voldemort and his followers, it would be in all our best interests to join forces and face him together.”

Since the man may as well have cleared Sirius’s name, Sirius is certainly inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt. To shatter Malfoy Manor’s wards so completely, to face down two wizards and a witch—and Sirius knows from experience just how quick Narcissa is with a curse—Gryffindor’s Heir has to be powerful. It’s the second time he’s done something that should be impossible, and that’s a pretty good track record.

“Has anyone told Harry?” he asks suddenly, and the eyes of all those remaining fall on him. “If this wizard is out to kill Voldemort, he might try to talk to Harry, since he’s the one who managed it before.”

“And we are to expect a reckless, glory-seeking boy with delusions of grandeur and an ego that matches his father’s to tell us, should this happen?” Snape sneers. “I would sooner expect Black to show sense.”

Sirius snarls, rising from his seat, but before he can move Remus catches his arm. “Easy,” the other man says softly, pulling him back down. He shifts his gaze to Snape, who’s watching them narrowly, and manages a smile even if it looks strained. “Severus, Harry's a smart boy, and he’s had enough experience with mysterious strangers to know it rarely ends well, keeping things to himself. Just—keep an eye on him. He might react better if he knows why the man is approaching him in the first place.”

Snape looks far from convinced, or even approving, but he looks away rather than prolonging the argument.

“A good suggestion, Sirius,” Dumbledore approves with a smile. “Seeing as you are currently under investigation but not a criminal, I believe it would be a splendid time to introduce Harry to his godfather, as well.”

Hope flickers bright and hot inside Sirius’s chest, and he looks up with his breath caught in his throat. Dumbledore’s expression is understanding and warm and a little mischievous as he adds, “You're no longer a wanted criminal, my boy, and unless they prove you guilty, you are innocent. I see no reason why you can't meet a family member under supervision.”

Meeting Harry as something other than a fugitive on the run, getting to know him as more than just a reflection of James with hints of Lily, _living_ with him and acting as his guardian the way Sirius should have been doing since Lily and James’s death—it’s what Sirius has been hoping for since he escaped Azkaban, and what he never believed would happen.

“Thank you,” he manages, instead of the myriad things that would likely be more appropriate. Remus squeezes his knee gently, and Sirius casts him a grateful smile. “Will you come?” he asks quietly.

“Of course,” Remus answers, as thought it were never a question at all. “Harry will be so pleased.”

Sirius remembers Harry on the night Pettigrew escaped them, the joy at the thought of not having to return to Lily’s nasty sister, at having a godfather. He feels it now, at the thought of his only remaining family of choice, and can't help a grin. “Thanks, Moony. You're the best.”

“And you’d best remember it, Padfoot.” Remus smiles back, fingers glancing over the back of his hand, and then turns away to talk to Molly.

Sirius watches him go, and wonders when the itch of madness under his skin turned from unbearable to manageable.

 

 

Salazar is reading in his canopy bed, waiting for Crabbe and Goyle to clear the bathroom, when Draco Malfoy sweeps in, face pale but not with the fury that’s so frequently present. For a long moment, Salazar watches him stand at the foot of his bed, staring blankly at the green hangings with his fists clenched at his side. Then, slowly, he places his marker back in the book and sits up, watching the boy warily.

“Is everything all right?” he asks carefully, trying to judge if he’s about to set the blond off.

Malfoy flinches, then half-turns to level a murderous glare at him. “My parents,” he spits, sharp with clear fury, “were _attacked_ last night. By the _Heir of Gryffindor_!”

Salazar goes very, very still, and thinks, _Damn you to the deepest pits of hell, Godric Gryffindor. I'm going to_ murder _you._

“Are they hurt?” he asks levelly, once he’s sure he won't lose his temper just by opening his mouth.

Draco scoffs, spinning on his heel and pacing restlessly in the space between the beds. “No. My mother almost managed to curse him, but he destroyed the wards and got away. But Aurors showed up after him, and now my father is at the Ministry trying not to let them discredit the whole family!”

Unlikely to have been accomplished by Godric alone—he’s skilled, but wards are complex, especially when they’ve been in place as long as the ones on the Manor must have. So. Either Rowena or Helga assisted him, and Salazar’s money is on Helga. Rowena, at least, would have thought things through and _told him_. And the aftermath—that speaks of luck more than anything planned. Definitely Helga, then.

“My condolences,” Salazar offers, and mostly means it. The loss of a parent, even only temporarily, is hard to endure.

“Potter will probably be celebrating,” Draco says moodily, throwing himself down on his bed, and it takes effort for Salazar not to roll his eyes. Merlin save him from the melodrama of teenagers.

Even so, it strikes the spark of an idea, and Salazar narrows his eyes, looking over the boy for a moment. “Is Potter always your first thought, Malfoy?” he asks, and can't help but be faintly amused.

That gets Malfoy bolting upright, cheeks flushing with what has a decent chance of being fury. There are other options, though, and Salazar finds those more interesting than anger. “No!” Draco snaps. “But he’s a smug, arrogant bastard and always rubbing things in and getting away with everything he does!”

“Of course,” Salazar demurs, and this time he doesn’t bother hiding his amusement as he picks up his book again. He’s only just opened it, however, when a shadow falls on the page. Without looking up, he asks blandly, “Is there something you require from me, Malfoy?”

The tip of Malfoy’s wand pushes his book down until he can see the boy’s glare, raised to almost impressively blistering levels. “I think you were implying something, Silvius,” Malfoy snarls. “Well? Can't say it to my face?”

“He was only saying what we’ve all been thinking since first year,” Blaise says dryly, and even Theodore Nott nods in agreement, though he usually keeps well out of such arguments.

Draco rounds on them as well, but before he can speak, Salazar decides to redirect his attention. Collateral damage can be so messy, and if Draco wants to start throwing curses, Salazar would rather it was at someone capable of blocking them. “Given that we’re barely over a week into the school year and I've already noticed, you might want to reconsider your answer. There must be more satisfying ways to shut Potter up than hexing him.”

Seeing the bathroom door open in a billow of steam, Salazar sets his book aside, primly sidesteps a gaping, red, and entirely speechless Draco, and picks up his uniform. He showers as quickly as possible, glad for the lack of interruption, and slips out of the dorm and heads for the Great Hall with only one thought in mind. If Godric really did what Salazar suspects, they're going to have it out, and even if Salazar has to spend the next three months plotting his retribution from the shadows, he’s going to make Godric regret his recklessness. Rowena can deal with Helga; he has a pigheaded Gryffindor to rein in.

Of course, when he steps through the doorway, Helga and Godric are nowhere to be seen, and conspicuous in their absence. Salazar frowns at the redheaded twins with their heads bent together, since they're Godric’s frequent companions, and then at the strawberry-blonde girl who’s usually with Helga. They're alone, though, and before Salazar can take so much as a step towards the Gryffindor table to interrogate the Weasleys, a familiar hand snaps closed around his elbow and drags him right back out of the Hall.

“Roberta?” Salazar demands with no little annoyance. “Must you manhandle me?” He yanks out of her grip and turns, ready to complain, and pulls himself up short at the expression of incandescent fury on her face. With the self-preservation instincts cultivated through a long acquaintance with three very dangerous people, Salazar takes four neat steps back, pauses, and then adds a fifth just for good measure.

“Yes?” he asks warily, deciding that now is truly not the time to so much as indirectly risk provoking her.

Rowena’s nostrils flare as she lets out a furious breath, mouth pinched with the force of her anger. She turns on her heel, stalks through the door pretending to be a tapestry, and vanishes.

Salazar follows, because when she’s in a mood like this he’d honestly rather keep her where he can see her.

The moment he’s through the concealed doorway and in the room they used the night of the Sorting, a newspaper is immediately shoved into his face. “Have you _seen this_?” Rowena hisses like a poisonous snake. She waves the paper like she’s throttling it, and Salazar isn’t anywhere close to brave enough to snatch it from her hand. He settles for squinting at the headline, and—

**MINISTRY SEEKS EDUCATIONAL REFORM: DELORES UMBRIDGE APPOINTED FIRST-EVER “HIGH INQUISITOR”**

“ _What?_ ”

Abruptly, Salazar is all too familiar with what exactly it is Rowena’s feeling. He chances losing his fingers, too angry to think of the risks clearly, and grabs the paper. The entire article is complete hogwash, and he just gets more furious with every word. A Ministry employee _inspecting_ Hogwarts teachers, reigning over them with uncontestable authority? Fudge is an absolute idiot if he thinks this is going to stand.

“Where’s Godric?” Rowena asks briskly. “I know we haven’t been making Umbridge the priority, but if she doesn’t suffer a debilitating accident in the next week, I'm going to arrange one for her.”

Salazar freezes, gaze fixed halfway down the page. And…that’s a very good reminder of just why he was looking for the Gryffindor in the first place. “I think,” he says carefully, “that we may have a bigger problem than just Umbridge.”

Blue eyes narrow sharply, and Rowena crosses her arms over her chest. “Oh?” she answers, faintly wary. “I'm listening.”

“Malfoy Manor was attacked last night,” he offers succinctly. “By the Heir of Gryffindor.”

Rowena closes her eyes, breathes in, lets it out, and then turns sharply on her heel. “I’ll kill him,” she says mildly, almost cheerfully. “He is dead, dead, dead. Come along, Salazar, you can help me dispose of the body.”

Salazar rolls his eyes, but obediently falls into step as her shoes click menacingly down the hall—not close, but close enough that Rowena can hear it when he says in an undertone, “I have reason to believe that Helga was involved as well.”

Rowena falters, just a little. Then she squares her shoulders and keeps walking. “Bodies, forgive me. If they're going to be stupid, it’s their own damn fault.”

“We don’t know why,” Salazar points out, though he’s not about to stop her. Not when she’s doing exactly as he intended to a moment ago.

“Yes we do,” she counters crisply. “They felt we were moving too slowly, so they took matters into their own hands and left a warning for one of Voldemort’s inner circle, to inspire fear in all the rest and make them sloppy. And they _didn’t tell us_.”

“My,” Salazar says, desert-dry. “It’s almost as if they don’t trust us.”

That brings Rowena to a complete stop, frozen in her tracks. Salazar stops as well, turning to arch a brow at her, and tries not to feel a faint pang of sympathy at the expression on her face. “Did you truly expect anything different?” he asks, and if it’s not quite gentle, it’s not as biting as it could be. “After—”

“Yes, thank you, Salazar, I remember what happened,” Rowena snaps, then presses a hand over her face, regathering her composure. When she lets it fall, her expression is set again. “Fine. So there was a reason. That doesn’t excuse the fact that they went haring off on their own into a situation that could have broken our cover completely. It was a foolish risk.”

“And I'm about to take an even more foolish one,” Godric says from behind, and grins winningly when they both turn to glare at him. At his elbow, Helga offers a cheerful and entirely unrepentant wave. Before Rowena or Salazar can even get their mouths open, Godric forges on with, “There's no curse in the DADA classroom, so it has to be somewhere else the professor teaching would frequent. Our best bet is—”

“Umbridge’s rooms,” Rowena finishes, though her scathing look makes it clear the previous subject will not be forgotten. She frowns a little, then smiles in a way that sends warning shivers down Salazar’s spine. “Splendid. I’ll come with you.”

Godric nods like he’d been expecting that—he likely was, since he and Rowena often have a touch too many traits in common for Salazar’s peace of mind—and Helga slips around to Salazar’s side. “Help me keep watch on the hall?” she asks winsomely, though there's a steely light in her brown eyes that dares Salazar to say anything about their little jaunt last night.

“I assume I have no choice?” he asks, longsuffering, and certainly doesn’t soften at the sight of Helga's bright grin. “Very well. Seeing as the _High Inquisitor_ is currently eating breakfast, I take it we’re going now?”

“I thought it best,” Godric confirms, offering Rowena his arm. She pointedly doesn’t take it, lifting her chin and side-eyeing him like a cat might a particularly fat, dumb mouse. Being the mature adult he is, Godric rolls his eyes and sticks his tongue out at her, snatching it back into his mouth a split second before she grabs it between her thumb and finger.

“Do that again and I hex it to the roof of your mouth,” she warns, raising a threatening finger.

“Try it and I give you an extra nose,” Godric retorts.

“ _Children_ ,” Salazar scolds in exasperation, and they both turn as one and make a face at him. A very similar face. Salazar is still astonished by the fact that they're not blood siblings.

Helga stifles a laugh behind one hand, and Salazar sighs.

Well. At least one of them is having fun.


	14. XIV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cha cha slides in with an offering* 
> 
> Whoops, that took a long time. Mea culpa. ^^’

One step into Umbridge’s quarters and Godric has to stop and gag. “Oh, _stars_. Aargh, I think my eyes are bleeding.”

At his elbow, Rowena doesn’t look any happier, her grimace deep and painful. “Merlin, I haven’t seen this much pink in my _life_.”

Which is saying something, for them. Godric huffs his agreement, tentatively taking a few steps into the sitting room and glancing around. The many cloying pictures of kittens blink dumbly at him, but since they're not a threat unless Umbridge speaks cat—and McGonagall’s reaction to her is a rather clear indication that she can't—he ignores them. Harder to ignore is the way every inch of the room is some shade of pink, from the walls to the carpet. Godric doesn’t mind the color, himself, but this much of it everywhere? It’s _awful_.

“She deserves what's coming for her, if only for her taste,” he mutters, studying a fuzzy pink lamp and turning away with a faint shudder.

Rowena snorts. “Agreed. Check the bedroom, would you? Our High Inquisitor seems the type to get eight hours a night—that would be plenty of exposure for a curse, don’t you think?”

“Logical,” Godric agrees, happily leaving the main room and stepping into the chamber off to the side. More pink, of course, and Godric is never going to be able to look at the color again without his skin wanting to break out in hives. Thankfully, he doesn’t have to touch more than the rug as he drops down to sit, crossing his legs under him and reaching for Hogwarts’s magic. It’s particularly tangled here, wound with new spells that all have to be checked over, and he grimaces as he gets to work. Breakfast will only last so long, after all, and this is a little too risky to try again unless Umbridge is thoroughly distracted.

Of course, because his life can never be so simple, Rowena parks herself in the doorway and says, faux-idly, “Must have been an entertaining jaunt over to Malfoy Manor last night.”

Godric rolls his eyes, not bothering to open them. He discards one of the numerous color-changing spells, finds a suspicious charm wound through them, and pauses, trying to identify it. “You know, Rowena, this would go a lot more smoothly if I wasn’t _distracted_.”

“Nonsense,” Rowena parries without hesitation. “You could do this in the middle of a duel, Godric, don’t lie to me. And _do_ tell me just what the hell you and Helga thought you were doing.”

Fantastic. This is _exactly_ the conversation Godric wants to have while trapped in a room with Rowena. He scowls, opening one eye to glare at her. “We had a plan. We followed it. It worked out perfectly. Drop it.”

“I don’t think I will,” Rowena says, dangerously pleasant, and meets his glare with an implacable expression he knows from experience doesn’t mean anything good. “ _We_ had a plan, Godric, and it’s one you agreed to. Running off on your own to antagonize Death Eaters was never a part of it!”

The suspicious spell is only an eavesdropping charm. Godric rejects it viciously, and Hogwarts devours it with equal glee, incorporating the magic into the rest of the weave. It shimmers more brightly in his senses for a moment, burning hotly, and Godric moves on, catching another knot of spells. “We weren’t _antagonizing them_ —” A loud scoff from Rowena, and he sighs aggrievedly, surrendering that point at least. “ _Fine_ , all right, _yes_ we were antagonizing them, but that was part of the plan, too. Send them running back to Voldemort and all that.”

“In _due time_ —” Rowena starts sharply, and Godric snarls, rising to his feet and taking two steps forward to push right up into her face.

“And what is due time?” he demands, and Rowena is the exact height he is, but he takes advantage of his broader build and looms over her, glaring into narrowed blue. “After Voldemort is at Hogwarts’s gates? When he’s in the Ministry? When you and Helga and Salazar—”

“When _all four of us_ are aware of what's happening and can plan accordingly!” Rowena snarls back, and doesn’t so much as flinch in the face of his anger. She never has. “Fey take you, Godric, this is _not how we do things_ —”

Godric laughs, and it’s the furthest thing from kind. “Oh, really? It’s not? Because judging by the way you and Salazar have been carrying on for the last fifty years, I would say that’s _exactly_ how we do things, Rowena.”

Her cheeks flush with fury as she draws herself up, hands clenching into fists, and Godric’s eyes dart down, waiting, watching, anticipating the moment when she goes for her wand—

 But Rowena’s never needed magic to be devastating. “Why do you think we left, Godric?” she asks, as sharp as the crack of a whip, as silken as a poisoned dagger sliding into his back. “What reason could Salazar and I have had for leaving _you_ behind?”

The lance of mingled pain and fury is so sudden and overwhelming that Godric falters. He falls back a step, breath catching hard in his throat, eyes widening, and all he can see is the flare of victory in Rowena’s eyes. And Godric—

He _hates_ letting his rage get the better of him, hates it more than anything else in the world. More than loneliness, more than abandonment, more than dying for no reason and without sense. Giving in to anger, letting it control him—that’s Godric’s boggart, and has been since the first time he realized just what his anger made him. But now, just for a moment, he can see himself doing just that, can feel the applewood of his wand between his fingers, the edge of a spell to cut and rend on his tongue. He lifts his hand, wand leaping into his grasp, and takes a step back to fall into a steadier stance. He won't hurt her, can't, but—

It’s the _but_ that catches his attention. Every thought judders to a halt, left hanging, and Godric hesitates, freezes, even as Rowena goes for her own wand. Her magic is familiar as it surges to life, cool but edged with lightning like a storm among the stars, but Godric can't move, caught between horror and the blinding beat of fury rising through his chest.

“Rowena,” he manages, half-strangled by _something_ that’s caught up between his head and heart, but Rowena’s face is a mask of cold fury.

“You’ve endangered _everything_ ,” she snarls, pale light gathering at the tip of her wand. “ _This_ is why we left, Gryffindor, _this_ is the reason. You can't be trusted, can't be relied upon—”

Anger and offense overwhelm what little bits of reason he’s been able to scrape together, and Godric catches her spell, lets it splatter across a glowing shield of silver light before he sweeps it away, steps forward. Still not quite able to throw his own spell, not yet, but the peril of a thousand years together is that they both know every weak point between them. “And you're so much better, Ravenclaw? Trapped up in your high tower, looking down on everyone? _Stars_ , don’t you ever get tired of that condescension, of thinking you're smarter than the rest of us? Maybe you are, but at least _we_ don’t have ice in our veins! Have you ever truly loved even one thing, or was it all a pretty lie—”

With a cry of rage, Rowena lunges, another spell gathering, and—

A silvery badger slides between them, appearance sudden enough to shock both Godric and Rowena back a step, and Helga's voice emerges from the Patronus’s mouth. “Umbridge is heading this way, you have to get out!”

The reassertion of reality is like a shock of cold water dumped over Godric’s head. He takes another step back, closes his eyes, and breathes carefully. Too much rage, not enough reason, and blindly he pushes past a still and started Rowena, all but bolting towards the main room. A hard shove against the door and he’s spilling out through the disguised tapestry, staggering into the hall. Helga is waiting, but the moment she sees him her eyes go wide with worry. They dart past, towards Rowena as she emerges behind him, but at the same moment the sharp click of mincing steps sounds just around the corner. Umbridge, Godric knows without needing to look.

“Go,” he tells Helga, sharp and with no room for argument, and spins to look at Rowena. She glares right back at him, the edge of her fury slow to fade, and nods once, short and brisk.

“Go,” she agrees tightly, raising her wand, and Helga gives them one last concerned glance shared between them before she turns and hurries down the corridor. Not enough time for all of them to make it, not nearly, and there are traces of magic in Umbridge’s rooms that anyone suspicious enough can pick up. Better to throw her off the scent here—

Just beyond the corner Helga rounded, there's a quiet curse, a sharp, “For once in you damned life, Salazar, _play along_ ,” in Helga's entirely exasperated whisper, and a crackle of familiar magic. Salazar yelps, then snarls, and his own magic flares, resounding off a shield with a sound like a gong.

From somewhere further away, McGonagall’s voice cries, “Miss Hathaway, Mister Silvius, _what on earth on you doing_?” and despite the pulse of anger in him Godric suddenly finds he’s about to laugh. He raises his wand, clinging to the imagined image of Helga hexing Salazar, and meets Rowena’s reluctantly amused eyes across the space between them. They raise their wands just as the clicking footsteps step around the far end of the hall, and as one throw their curses. There’s a high-pitched shriek of mingled fear and anger, and Godric spins out of the way of a jet of violet light. Rowena blocks his Disarming Spell with a Shield Charm, ducks away from a swarm of white darts he sends at her, and returns a bolt of forest-green magic that rebounds off a golden shield.

“Enough!” Umbridge screeches, and in the same moment McGonagall appears at a dead run, her hat askew.

“Griffiths, Roanoke! Cease this madness at once!” she snaps, and Godric obediently aborts his next spell in a sizzling crackle of red, sliding his wand back up his sleeve and turning to face the professor. She looks faintly winded, and Helga and Salazar are a few paces behind her, the latter looking coolly unconcerned and the former bashful but unrepentant.

“Professor,” Rowena says, casually slipping her wand away as if she wasn’t just caught dueling in the hallway.

McGonagall regards them narrowly, pushes her glasses up her nose, and says sharply, “To the Headmaster’s office, all of you. _Now_. I am deeply disappointed in you, and I'm sure your Heads of House will be as well when I inform them. Non-verbal magic is a true achievement for a fifth year, and you squander that knowledge like _this_?”

Oops. Godric had hardly even noticed they weren’t speaking their spells, and by the faint, unhappy twitch of Rowena’s mouth, he can see she didn’t either.

“Sorry, Professor,” he says as contritely as he can manage, and despite his age it takes actual effort not to squirm when her disapproving gaze lands squarely on him.

“To the Headmaster’s office,” she repeats. “And believe me, Mister Griffiths, we will be discussing you blatant disregard for the safety of others later. Delores.” She inclines her head to the other teacher, then turns sharply on her heel and stalks away. Godric follows, feeling Rowena fall into step with him, and pointedly ignores Umbridge entirely as he walks past.

“Should you need me to oversee a detention, Minerva,” Umbridge calls after them, sickly-sweet, “I’d be more than happy to make sure they understand Hogwarts’s rules.”

“I don’t believe that will be necessary, Dolores,” McGonagall bites out, not looking back, “but the offer is much appreciated, thank you.”

It really doesn’t sound like it is, Godric thinks with faint amusement, and casts a glance back at Helga and Salazar. Neither looks much the worse for wear, though, so he doesn’t linger, turning his eyes back towards the front and letting out a carefully even breath.

If Helga hadn’t sent her Patronus when she did—

But it doesn’t matter what could have happened, because what really matters is what _did_. Godric lost his temper. He lost it to the point that he was willing to curse Rowena, willing to fight her, make her bleed, and if he’d called his sword at that moment, Rowena’s death could have been on his hands. With her relic corrupted as it is, he doesn’t even know if she’d heal the way she should, but in that moment, it hadn’t _mattered_.

He came too close. Far, far too close. One second more, one ounce of practice at controlling his temper less, and—well. Godric wants to say _who knows what would have happened_ , but. But that’s the problem. He knows _exactly_ what he’s capable of, and even if the others forget it, or choose to overlook it, it’s not a matter that’s ever far from Godric’s mind. It can't be, or a scene like what just happened in Umbridge’s rooms will happen again.

Godric curls his hands into fists, lets his nails bite into the flesh of his palms. He breathes, careful and deliberate, and keeps his eyes fixed on McGonagall’s back as she sweeps through the halls ahead of them.

It won't happen again, he tells himself. One slip is already more than he can afford. His anger has been running too deep, too hot of late. He needs to step back, keep away for just a little while longer, get his head on straight. He needs to be able to trust himself again, because the last fifty years have proved that he _must_ , or he’ll be left adrift once more.

 

 

The Headmaster’s office looks precisely as Sirius remembers it from his numerous trips here as a student, and it takes effort not to simply grin when Remus rolls his eyes at him.

“Come on, Moony,” he protests. “When was the last time you were here _without_ being in trouble? I'm savoring the moment.”

“Maybe when I was _teaching_ here?” Remus retorts, exasperated. Dumbledore just chuckles, taking a seat on the far side of the desk.

“A refreshing change of pace for you then, Sirius,” he says cheerfully, and looks towards the door as a knock echoes through the room. “Come in.”

Harry pushes the door open and steps in, only to stop short, his eyes widening when they land on his godfather. “ _Sirius_?” he asks incredulously, but there's a grin breaking over his face, and Sirius laughs as he steps forward, wrapping him in a tight hug.

“Good to see you again, Harry,” he says, and means that it’s good to see him like this, as the next best thing to a free man. Not hunted anymore, not a convict on the run, but someone with a future.

Harry hugs him back just as tightly, then shifts a step away. “Hi, Lupin,” he says, grinning, and Remus smiles back. His eyes slide back to Sirius, though, flicker towards Dumbledore, and he asks, “Have you been cleared?”

“Not yet,” Sirius admits, and tries not to smile at the disappointment on the boy’s face. “It’s barely been two days, Harry. These things take time. Less than they might have, thankfully.”

“Thanks to the Heir of Gryffindor,” Remus adds, and Harry smiles, disappointment washing away in favor of something that’s nearly awe.

“It’s brilliant,” he says, and it’s easy to see he means that wholeheartedly. “Someone else is fighting Voldemort too. That’s—it’s a good thing.”

Sirius glances over at Remus to find him looking back, a spark of worry in his eyes. “It is,” he agrees, not about to do anything else when Peter is sitting in a cell at the Ministry, finally facing justice for betraying James and Lily. The Order didn’t have enough time or resources to find him, but the Heir of Gryffindor did. Allies can only improve their chances in this war. “That’s one of the reasons I wanted to see you, Harry. He might approach you, since you were the one who defeated Voldemort last time, and he keeps targeting you. Gryffindor’s Heir is looking to kill him, so that makes you a valuable ally.”

Harry looks down, hiding his eyes behind the fall of his hair for half a second, and Sirius is struck by the sudden realization that it’s not a gesture he ever saw James make. It’s one of _Lily’s_ gestures, giving herself a moment to think without people staring at her when under pressure, and his breath catches in his throat. Then green eyes are rising again, and that’s another blow to the gut. “Good,” Harry says, on the edge of fierce. “If he already managed to get Wormtail, that’s a good start, isn’t it?”

Warmth curls in Sirius’s chest, and he couldn’t fight a smile if he tried.

Thankfully, Remus is at least slightly more sensible than he is, and gives Sirius a pointed look before he says, “If he does, Harry, you have to let someone know. He’s against Voldemort, but that doesn’t mean he’s on our side just yet. Be careful, all right?”

For half an instant Sirius thinks Harry is going to protest, but he doesn’t. There's a pause that’s hardly long enough to be suspicious—wouldn’t be at all if Sirius didn’t remember _exactly_ what James was like at Harry's age—and Harry nods in agreement. “All right,” he says, firmly enough that even Sirius is almost convinced, and looks at his godfather. “Are you staying long?”

Regret twists in Sirius’s stomach, but he tells himself that as soon as Peter is convicted he’ll have all the time in the world to linger with Harry. “Sorry, but the Ministry put a half hour limit on my presence at the school. Officially I'm only here to introduce myself, seeing as we’ve never met. Apparently they don’t think I'm _that_ innocent.”

He partway expects the joke to fall flat, the edges of resentment and anger he glimpsed over the summer to flare up again. To his surprise, however, Harry grins, expression bright, and says, “Well, they're not _wrong_. You did break into a school and try to kill someone.”

Remus snorts, and Sirius chuckles, tucking his hands in his pockets.  “When you put it like _that_ I sound like a criminal,” he complains, and when Remus actually starts laughing he gives his friend a mock-glare. “Shut it, Moony.”

Dumbledore chuckles a little, too, but when a knock on the door echoes through the room he rises to his feet. “Alas, work calls. Harry, would you like to walk them down to the gate? I'm sure the Minister wouldn’t protest the three of you indulging in a bit of a stroll in this lovely weather.”

Sirius is absolutely sure the Minister would, but he’s not about to argue against a few more minutes with his godson. Harry looks happy with the offer as well, nodding quickly. “Thank you, Professor,” he says, and gets a warm smile in response before Dumbledore turns to call in whoever is waiting for his attention.

Professor McGonagall is the one who pushes the door open, features set into even sterner lines than normal. “Excuse me, Headmaster,” she says briskly. “I wouldn’t normally bother you with this, but given that those involved are new students I thought it best to bring it to your attention.”

Humor sparkles in Dumbledore’s blue eyes, quickly covered, and he nods. “Of course, Minerva, of course. What seems to be the matter?”

Before Sirius can hear what it is that has her looking so prickly, she firmly closes the door behind her, shutting them out, and Sirius will admit he’s faintly disappointed. He casts a glance back at it, catching Remus’s amused arch of one brow, and makes a face at him.

“Gideon!” Harry says in surprise, and the name makes Sirius turn.

Four students are waiting on the landing, all likely fifth years, all some shade of unrepentant, which Sirius approves of. The redhead with the Gryffindor tie is the one who looks up at Harry’s call, and he grins, cheerfully wicked in a way that reminds Sirius of the Weasley twins.

“Morning, Harry,” he answers, pushing away from the wall to approach them. Sirius and Remus both get polite smiles, but the one he gives Harry is warmer, and very fond. “What are you in for, then?”

“Meeting my godfather,” Harry tells him without hesitation, and it makes something very much like joy curl in Sirius’s chest to hear him say it so easily to someone who isn’t a member of the Order.

Gideon’s eyes flicker up to settle unerringly on Sirius—not a surprise, given the way he’s had his wanted poster plastered everywhere for the last two years—and he offers a hand, a steadiness in his gaze that Sirius wouldn’t expect from a fifteen-year-old. “A pleasure to meet you, Lord Black,” he says politely. “I'm Gideon.”

The title almost throws Sirius, makes him want to turn around and look for his father, but he manages to contain the impulse as he takes his hand. “Any relation to Gideon Prewett?” The Prewetts used to be a large family, after all, and while the war took both of Molly’s brothers, she still has other relatives. With that hair, it seems like a safe bet.

“No, sorry. It’s Griffiths.” His grip is firm, and there are more calluses than Sirius is used to in a wizard, but his face is open, clear. “Congratulations on being cleared.”

Those words still make Sirius’s breath want to catch in his throat, joy and vicious satisfaction mixed, and he can't fight a grin, even as he says, “Well, it’s not quite done yet.”

“But it will be, I'm sure.” There's a solid certainty in those words, almost unnerving, but before Sirius can dwell on it Gideon has let go, turning to offer the same gesture to Remus. “And you must be Professor Lupin. Harry’s told me great things about you.”

Brows sliding up in polite surprise, Remus shakes his hand. “I'm sorry we can't say the same. I don’t remember you from my time here.”

“He’s a new student,” Harry says, and he gives Gideon an amused look. “You're the one that ruffled Professor McGonagall’s fur?”

Gideon’s grin is bright and entirely satisfied. “It was a group effort. We might possibly have started dueling in the hallway.”

Harry hesitates before he answers, though, watching the other boy carefully. Sirius catches the faintest narrowing of his eyes behind the frames of his glasses, and he asks, softly enough that Sirius can hardly hear it, “Are you all right?”

Sirius glances over at Remus, brows rising, and Remus frowns a little, nodding in agreement. They must already be close friends, if Harry’s asking that, and if Gideon is a new student that’s a quick friendship indeed. Not that Sirius doesn’t think it’s possible—he and James were practically instant friends, after all—but it’s still surprising.

“I'm fine,” Gideon says, equally soft. His smile has slipped sideways into something less showy, with an edge of grim sadness behind it, but it’s still genuine. “Things just got a little out of hand, that’s all.”

The beauty with the Ravenclaw tie snorts, ignoring the exasperated huff of the blonde Hufflepuff next to her. The last, a tall Slytherin boy, simply rolls his eyes, but before any of them can say anything McGonagall opens the door again.

“The Headmaster would like to have a few words with you,” she says reprovingly. “Good day, Mister Black, Mister Lupin, Mister Potter.”

That tone brings back memories, Sirius thinks, just hiding a grin. “Come on,” he urges his godson, nodding to Gideon as he moves past. The redhead winks at Harry, murmurs, “Later,” and vanishes into the office, the other three trailing him. With a firm click, the door shuts after them, and Remus starts down the stairs. Harry and Sirius follow more sedately, though Harry casts a look back at the office before they go.

“Good friend?” Sirius asks mildly, trying not to let his interest show.

“I—yeah.” Harry almost sounds surprised about that. “He’s been helping me with Potions. Snape actually had to give me a good grade on the last essay.”

Mention of Snape makes Sirius’s mood sour faintly, but he determinedly pushes past it, not about to let the git spoil his time with Harry. “That’s good. Your mother always helped your father and I. ‘Course, we had Slughorn then, not Snape, and he at least tried to be fair. Are they exchange students?”

Harry shakes his head, and he’s smiling to himself a little. Sirius wonders, suddenly, if this is a crush rather than a simple friendship, and has to hide a grin of his own. Maybe Gideon is Harry’s Lily. Before he can ask, though, Harry says, “No, Gideon says they were taught by their parents.”

There's a niggling note of caution somewhere in the back of Sirius’s mind, and he wonders if they should maybe take a closer look at Gideon Griffiths and his friends. Sirius might be willing to be reckless with his own safety, should circumstances require it, but he’s not about to let Harry get close to someone who might end up working for Voldemort, _especially_ if it’s some sort of romantic entanglement.

“Just be careful,” Remus says, before Sirius can think of a tactful—or, knowing his own ability to stick his foot in mouth, less than tactful—way to phrase his worries. “There's a lot happening right now, Harry. Caution is your safest bet.”

“Constant vigilance,” Harry says, with a faintly crooked smile, and Sirius snorts.

“Constant vigilance,” he agrees, squeezing Harry’s shoulder.

 

 

It’s well after midnight and Helga can't sleep.

She sighs faintly, less at her restlessness and more at the reasons behind it, and sits up, careful to keep her mattress from creaking. A quick check assures her that the other girls in her dorm are deeply asleep, and without bothering to grab a robe or even put on her shoes, only pausing to slip her wand into a pocket, she pads out into the silent common room. The first year girl they met by the lake on the first day is asleep on one of the couches, her potions textbook open under her cheek. Gently, Helga smooths Rose’s hair back, and when the girl doesn’t wake she carefully eases her head up to replace the book with a pillow, then pulls a quilt up over her shoulders. There's no one else present, though, and Helga doesn’t linger, slipping out the door.

Helga loves all aspects of Hogwarts, and has since the moment they laid the first stone. All the parts of it are lovely, but Helga loves it especially at night like this, lit only by a few scattered torches left burning, practically every last inhabitant dreaming in their beds. It gives the entire castle an air that’s almost ethereal despite its solidity, and Helga walks down the empty halls feeling as if she could float.

When she reaches the next hall, this one wider and sporting tall windows that let in the moonlight, she pauses. The stones are practically humming a welcome under her feet, and though the moon is waning it’s still bright. No torches here to interrupt, just silver brilliance spilling across pale stone, and Helga pauses at the edges of the light, staring out.

Everything’s been happening so quickly, leaving no time for pleasure. Old anger and hurt and secrets, all coming out at once, and Helga isn’t entirely sure what Rowena and Salazar thought they would accomplish, shutting her and Godric out, but it’s clear enough they’ve failed. Whether they know that yet is more doubtful, but—

But it was a lonely fifty years apart, and despite Helga’s faith that they’d find each other again, it was hard to bear.

Likely, Salazar feared Godric would go running to face Voldemort the moment he thought the others were in peril, Helga thinks a little sadly. Likely Rowena thought Helga would do something brash and endanger herself. Together, they feared incautious steps damning the four of them, a moment of unplanned action that would leave three of their number dead and Godric to grieve alone. And it means she can see why they made that decision, though she still thinks it was foolish of them. Better to explain things, to agree on a path together.

But they didn’t, and something broke.

It is, Helga is sure, because after so long together they know each other too well. They're set in their expectations, certain of their ability to predict each other’s moves well before they're made, and…maybe, in that light, the break was good for them.

Maybe they stopped actually seeing each other long ago.

But that means there's hope, Helga thinks, and takes a step forward until her toes are just touching the edge of the first pool of moonlight. Fifty years, even out of a thousand lived, is enough to change them, to erase old expectations. From here their only path is forward. It gives them time to relearn each other, to understand. An open wound lets the poison drain, after all. Rowena and Salazar separated them, thinking it was for the best, and things crumbled. But now, like this, they can rebuild, and the patched seams will only make the structure stronger.

One running step forward and the moonlight washes over her, cool and lovely. Helga laughs before she can help it, leaps and lands and twirls with the skirt of her nightgown flaring out around her knees, and beneath her bare feet Hogwarts is alive and thrumming with old magic, with the rhythm of a thousand dreams. She dances in the hallway, whirling through patches of brilliance, and at the far side she turns.

The charm is quick and simple, created from a child’s desperate wish for a friend. Helga isn’t that lonely little girl anymore—she knows her own strength now, has settled into it, understands that just because she’s softer doesn’t mean she’s any weaker than Godric or Rowena or Salazar. Still, this charm is hers, her own, and still precious.

Glittering dust leaves the tip of her wand and swirls like a galaxy forming. A breath, a touch of will, and it coalesces. Silver for the dress, like moonlight; midnight-blue for the fall of hair down to a shadowy waist; pale light for the face, featureless and indistinct; fiery blue for the eyes, like stars caught and hung too close to earth.

Helga faces the shadow made of light and lifts her skirts, curtseying politely. “Dance with me?” she asks, and it’s halfway to laughter at her own whims, but Helga has never been afraid of seeming silly.

The simulacrum curtseys in turn, offering its hands, and Helga takes them. It’s like grasping heavy mist, on the verge of intangible, but another moment of willing it to hold and it does. She lets the construct lead, spinning them into something quick and lively, and Helga laughs, almost able to hear the music as they twirl. Across the hall and back, practically running as they take the steps, and Helga lets everything else fall away into the darkness. The shadows can keep it; she’s done regretting the last fifty years, the choices other people made. This is _her_ choice, to live here and now, to recognize the beauty of bare stone and moonlight.

The simulacrum lets go, and Helga whirls away as it shatters, scattering luminescent dust across the hall. She laughs, leaping through it, landing light and swift and spinning on the ball of her foot. No structured dance, no set rhythm, no music but her own heartbeat and the hum of Hogwarts’s magic, but that’s what gives the movements life. Ballet and courante and saltarello, reel and galliard and bourrée—they mix and mingle in her head, just present enough to keep her feet moving and her heartbeat at double-time. She’s giddy with it, breathless and ready to laugh, her feet impossibly light across the cold stone and the moonlight humming like electricity in her veins.

Somehow, when she comes out of a tight spin, it’s no surprise at all to see Godric in the shadows, watching her with a smile.

She slides to a halt, breathing hard, and shoves her curls back from her face as she grins at him. “Godric! What are you doing up?”

Godric laughs, taking a step forward, and Harry is hovering behind him, awkward but curious. Helga gives him a smile, even as she reaches out for Godric. Without hesitation, Godric takes her hands, pulling her in to kiss her cheek.

“I could ask you the same thing, bright eyes,” he teases. “You're going to catch a cold running around like that.”

Helga glances down at her nightgown and has to laugh. He’s likely right—it’s pretty, cream silk patterned with pale gold flowers, but hardly warm. “I was restless,” she admits, and can see by the softening of Godric’s green eyes that he’s remembering their first meeting by the apple tree so long ago, the restlessness that drove her away from her lessons and straight towards her destiny.

“Is everything all right?” he asks, brushing her hair back, though his hand lingers, and there's concern poorly hidden on his face.

“I'm fine, fire-top,” she assures him. Catching his fingers, she twines them with her own, glancing back at Godric’s silent companion with a smile. “Heading out on an adventure?” There's few other places they could be going, really; Godric is wearing a heavy cloak, his sword at his side, and Harry is dressed in baggy Muggle clothes rather than his uniform, a Gryffindor scarf wrapped around his neck.

“Just a small one,” Godric says cheerfully, which probably means it’s something she should be concerned about. Still, Helga remembers the way Godric picked at his food during lunch, how Rowena threw herself into a ferocious about the applications of the Patronus Charm and pointedly never looked at Godric. Easy, too, to remember their pale faces when they stumbled out of Umbridge’s rooms, the tension between them.

Only the faintest traces of that are visible now, and Helga is absolutely certain that it’s Harry’s doing. In the face of that, encouraging this little jaunt can only do good. They're helping each other, and Helga is glad of it. Godric is friendly, but he tends to hold people at a distance and doesn’t make true friends easily, contenting himself with those he already has. She’s more than willing to support whatever connection to Harry that he’s forming.

“Have fun,” she tells them brightly, offering Harry a wave.

He smiles back, says, “Thanks,” like he’s truly grateful for the gesture. Or, perhaps, for not being overbearing—being who he is, Helga suspects he has far too much experience with that.

Another kiss, this time to her forehead, and Godric steps away. “Don’t stay up all night,” he chides her, and Helga laughs, sticking her tongue out at him. Godric grins in return, eyes full of mirth, then winks and pulls his hood up over his fiery hair before he vanishes down the connecting hall.

“Er,” Harry says, a little awkwardly. “You're…really good at that. Dancing, I mean.”

Helga grins at him, then flicks a hand, focusing for just a moment. A cloak settles around his shoulders, a deep red that almost looks black, trimmed with dark fur and clasped with a burnished gold pin shaped like a lion’s head. “Thank you,” she says warmly, reaching out to adjust it over his shoulders. Quickly, she leans in to press a kiss to his cheek as well, and murmurs, “Take care of him for me?” as she pulls back.

Harry’s cheeks are flushed dull red, but he nods firmly. “I will. Of course.”

“I don’t doubt it for a moment,” Helga assures him, then steps back and waves. Harry smiles at her, waving in return as he hurries after Godric. He doesn’t look back, but Helga keeps her hand raised right up until they both turn the distant corner and vanish from sight. Then, slowly, she lets it drop, and takes a careful breath.

Godric is all right now, but that just makes her think of how _not all right_ he was before, even after their trip to Malfoy Manner. It happened after he and Rowena went looking for the curse, and from Godric’s few, clipped words afterwards, there was a fight. A fight serious enough that Godric all but shut down in the wake of it, and Helga knows precisely what it takes to make that happen.

There's no easy fix, but…well. Helga’s never been scared of having to work a little harder than most to get what she wants.

Her steps are silent across the stone as she heads for the staircase, listening with half an ear for any sign of teachers or prefects patrolling. The corridors are silent, though, and she makes it to the hall outside the Defense professor’s quarters without having to make any detours. Silent here as well, but Helga doesn’t take any chances; she drops a Disillusionment Charm over herself as she sinks to the ground, leaning back against the wall next to the tapestry that covers the door. Closing her eyes, she takes a breath, folds her hands in her lap, and focuses on the currents of magic flowing all around her.

Godric describes it as a kaleidoscope or a hurricane, but to Helga it seems more like a loom with a thousand threads, each one a different shade or hue. Hogwarts is a tapestry, beautiful and wonderfully complex, and each light tug to a thread makes the entirety of it sing. Maybe Helga doesn’t have Godric’s strange instinct for magic, the intuitive understanding that’s always made her privately wonder if he doesn’t have the blood of some magical creature in his ancestry, but Hogwarts is built upon her magic just as much as it is his, as it is Salazar’s, as it is Rowena’s. They each poured themselves into its creation, nearly killed themselves with the effort of building it and then again and again in defense of it. Helga knows the warp and weft of Hogwarts better than she does herself.

Tipping her head back to rest against the cold stone, she breathes out, tracing across threads familiar and foreign alike. Carefully, cautiously, like Psyche sorting through scattered grains she follows each stray strand back to its source, then plucks it out of the weave if it’s not necessary or winds it into the pattern if it is. She could, in theory, reach the whole castle without moving an inch, but it’s much harder—magic is a physical force, and proximity makes this easier. As it is, delicate work like the kind needed to unravel a curse will be difficult from even this short distance, but Helga has determination and will on her side.

Lack of finesse drives both Rowena and Salazar mad, and Godric hates doing something the hard way when there's a simpler path, so they would have rejected this method out of hand unless it was a last resort. Helga doesn’t mind it, though; a little hard work never hurt anyone, after all.

She turns her wand over in her fingers, stroking lightly over the black walnut that’s been hers for as long as she can remember. Her father made it, carved for her hand, and Helga was the one to pluck the unicorn hair for its core. Calming, soothing, and she lets herself reach just a little beyond physical limits, the wand grounding her as she stretches metaphorical fingers into Umbridge’s rooms. Color-changing spells, heating charms, spells to animate paintings, and beneath the clutter Hogwarts’s steady strength, a base upon which to build.

A breath in, a breath out, and her questing fingers touch something that sparks and flares.

_Why am I even doing this?_

The thought is sudden, unexpected, and Helga frowns a little, faintly perturbed. She reaches again—

_It’s not as though they’ll ever recognize my efforts. I shouldn’t be—there's no purpose to this. The others never see me, just the House of the misfits, the boring ones, those not valuable enough for Gryffindor or Slytherin or Ravenclaw._

It hurts, and she sucks in a sharp breath, eyes opening to stare blankly at the wall in front of her. Old thoughts, deeply rooted, but—

 _I hate this. I hate never being anything, never valued, always left behind. I hate this, I hate them_ —

 _Ah_ , Helga thinks with gentle satisfaction. _There you are_.

“So this is what you did to Rowena and Godric?” she asks the spell with a faint smile, even as she reaches for the first thread in its weave. “You must have made them very angry at each other, right? Enough so that they scared themselves.” A sharp tug yields no results, not even the faintest budging of the spell, but Helga doesn’t let herself get discouraged. She studies it, taking in the knotwork like it’s a particularly stubborn piece of embroidery, or the roots of flower that needs transplanting, tangled up with the rest of the seedlings in the bed.

“They do tend to frighten easily, don’t they?” she muses, a little absently. She’s not Salazar, capable of pulling any spell apart just by looking at it, but she’s not helpless either. All she needs to do it take off whatever spell is amplifying emotions, turning them dark, and then Godric can finish the work. “I think it’s because they're both very strong; they’ve spent a long time making themselves that way, and sometimes all they can think about is what will happen if they lose control. They get so caught up being scared of themselves that they forget that their control is one of the reasons they're so strong in the first place.”

A different thread this time, smaller and subtler, the kind most people would overlook as just another part of the weave, but Helga gets her hands on it, tugs and worries and wiggles it until the frayed end pokes loose. She pulls on it carefully, but it doesn’t move, and with a huff she traces it back, tugs the next loop free and unthreads it before moving on to the next; the hard way it is, then. But that’s all right—Helga doesn’t mind putting as much effort as she needs into a task, even when it’s more than she expects.

“Your trick probably would have worked on Salazar, too,” she continues, closing her eyes again. “The three of them are so silly, don’t you think? Always going so fast, always pushing ahead, only looking back when there's no other choice. They might think they know themselves, but I’ve always wondered if they really do. Bad luck for you, isn’t it, that I'm the one to look for you? I know who I am, and I know all of my dark places. You can't use them against me, because I faced them a long time ago. I'm proud of them, and who they helped me become.”

She laughs a little, fingers curling around her wand. “Whoever put you here must have been very strong as well. I bet they were like Salazar and Rowena, always afraid to let themselves be soft. Or maybe they thought that someone soft couldn’t be strong as well. But if I’ve learned one thing in all these years, it’s that it takes just as much strength to refuse to fight. And I do. I’ll defend them if I'm forced to, but no matter how you play with my emotions and my insecurities, I will _never_ strike the first blow.”

One hard yank, carefully aimed, and the darkened weave unravels.


	15. XV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In reference to a joke made in this chapter: Shakespeare used _wit_ as a euphemism for dick (in _Romeo and Juliet_ is the example that’s foremost in my mind, but there are others), so that’s what Rowena and Salazar are referring to. I don’t take credit for drawing the connection, I just blame Tumblr.

The dungeons are cool and stately, beautiful for their architecture and where they look out into the depths of the lake, but sometimes Salazar finds himself restless beneath the weight of the castle. When it’s too much, too great to bear, he seeks refuge at the top of Ravenclaw Tower.

This is, he knows, Rowena’s space, her haven. But she’s rarely begrudged him its use over the years, and the view from the highest level is breathtaking and humbling, enough to clear his mind. The wind whistles past the windows, sweeping out over the Black Lake and the grounds surrounding it, and for once Salazar doesn’t care for the risks. He slidess out through one of the narrow windows, careful not to latch it behind himself, and takes three wary steps to the side along the narrow ledge. There's a rainspout here that he’s always favored as a seat, shaped like a kelpie bursting out of the stone. Godric’s touch, he’s sure, and it’s a strange comfort right now.

After this morning, he can safely say that it’s not him who wounded Godric, for once, but that’s little comfort in the face of the fact that Godric has been wounded at all. He hasn’t looked at Rowena straight on since McGonagall released them to their detentions, and between that and their frayed tempers it’s enough for Salazar to guess what happened.

He almost wishes he could be ignorant, but that’s a coward’s desire.

One hand goes to the chain around his neck, the potion vial that rests there. It should be paired, should rest alongside a golden chain and clink against a heavy locket, and the lack makes Salazar’s stomach turn.

He wonders, sometimes, in the very darkest moments, just what the effect of having such a dark soul bound to his own is. Wonders and fears, because when they created their ties to Hogwarts’s magic, they built a direct link to their own souls through their items. With Voldemort taking them, _using_ them to house his own fractured, decaying soul—

What leeches out? Where does Salazar’s own paranoia end, and where is it influenced by the very man they're trying to defeat? Has Rowena become colder, in the last fifty years, or is it simply her reaction to an emotional wound? Helga will likely show nothing until the very end, because she’s sweet by nature, but Salazar? Rowena?

They hardly need help to fall to corruption.

These moments are also where Salazar thanks every lucky star he was born under that Voldemort never managed to find Godric’s sword. Salazar can be brave, when a situation requires it, but the thought of a corrupted Godric? Godric falling into darkness?

Something in him quails to even picture it.

The world would burn, and there would be no stopping the blaze.

From within the tower, a door closes, and there's a sharp click of sensible flats across the stone floor. A sigh, weary and familiar, and the window creaks faintly as it’s pushed all the way open.

“Don’t think I didn’t see you lurking back there,” Rowena says, tired more than sharp, and Salazar starts to push himself up, faintly annoyed to have his peace disturbed. Before he can, however, Rowena adds, “What was it that gave me away, Helena?”

 _Oh_ , Salazar thinks with a wince, carefully lowering himself back against the wall of the tower. He eyes the long drop below him, wondering if it’s worth risking being seen levitating himself down. It’s dark, after midnight with most students and teachers fast asleep, but still a risk. Then again, he also doesn’t want to stay where he is; this conversation has equal odds of ending up a complete disaster or a tearful reminiscence, and Salazar has no desire to eavesdrop on either one.

“The older ghosts are well aware of just who the castle is playing host to this year,” Helena says, her tone bland. A pause, and she asks carefully, “Were you ever planning to say hello?”

Rowena sighs again, and Salazar just catches a flash of dark hair as she turns away from the window, no doubt to face the ghost of her daughter. “I hadn’t thought I would be welcome. Nine centuries, many of them spent in this castle, but you’ve never cared to acknowledge me before,” she says simply, and Salazar closes his eyes against the long-buried pain in her voice. Nine hundred and some-odd years since Helena’s betrayal, and it’s still the deepest wound anyone has ever managed to leave on Rowena.

“Mother—” Helena starts, and then stops short. A beat, and she asks quietly, “Helga too?”

“What did you expect, Helena?” It’s not derisive, not cutting in the least. Just sad and weary, full of old hurt.

Rowena, Salazar knows, is quite possibly the smartest witch to have ever lived. She’s brilliant and beautiful and has been for as long as she’s been alive. Even among her blood family, a house known for intelligence and wit, she was singular, and told so many times.

Of course, it also meant she was the target of seething jealousy from practically her first moment of awareness. Jealousy and anger and hate for who she was, and the building of Hogwarts was her escape from it. _They_ were her escape from it, a quartet each with their own brilliance, unable to outshine each other and impossible to match when united. For almost a century Rowena managed to escape the jealousy of those around her, and flourished in its absence.

And then Helena stole her diadem, betrayed her, and fled to Albania. Then the man Rowena sent to retrieve her killed her instead, only to turn the dagger on himself in the aftermath.

Rowena, of course, told them nothing at all of this until the news of Helena’s death reached her. And then she’d broken, fractured like flawed glass and locked herself away for almost a year, even Helga unable to draw her out of her grief.

Legend has it that Rowena Ravenclaw died of a broken heart, and that’s always been too close to the truth of things for Salazar’s comfort. Without Helga’s persistence, without Godric’s support and Salazar’s distraction, Rowena might very well have wasted away without care.

There's a quiet inhale, shaky and soft, and Helena says, “Mother, it’s been centuries.”

“Yes,” Rowena agrees, and there's an undercurrent of grim humor in her tone. “Centuries that you might have seen, had I made different choices. Had I managed to practice patience, or keep myself under control. How wise I was, indeed, to miss the baron’s feelings, his volatility. He killed you, Helena, because I was blinded by my hurt.” A low laugh, entirely devoid of mirth, and Rowena presses one hand against the window before her, eyes closed and head bowed. “And now look at me. Still making all the same mistakes, still hurting those I love best, and _I can't fix it_!”

It’s the closest to a shout that Salazar has heard from Rowena in a long time, rough with self-directed fury and grief in equal measure. He closes his eyes as well, regretting far too many things.

“If there is blame to be had in this situation,” Helena murmurs, “I believe all of it is mine, Mother.” A pause, carefully weighing. “I would offer you forgiveness, but there has never been anything to forgive.”

The faint, ghostly blur of Helena’s reflection in the window turns away, passes through the closed door without another word, and Rowena drags in a ragged breath that has far too much in common with a sob. She slams her fist into the stone beside the window, long hair tumbling around her face and grief carved into her features, and there are no tears, but Salazar knows he would feel more at peace if there were.

Rowena’s fury is a terrible thing, but never more so than when she turns it on herself.

Sighing a little, he rises from his perch and steps carefully back to the window, pulling it open enough to slide through. Rowena doesn’t show any sign of surprise, doesn’t even look at him as she trembles, and something in Salazar’s chest twinges. As soon as his feet hit the floor inside the tower, he reaches for her, and even though neither of them is much for touch he pulls her into a tight hug, letting her bury her face in his robes.

“Why?” she whispers, and there's fury and grief and bewilderment in the word. “ _Why_?”

It’s a question that doesn’t have an answer, a riddle to put to shame any the guardian of the common room below them could ask, and Salazar doesn’t bother trying to answer. He simply tugs her closer, breathes a sigh into her hair, and rubs a soothing hand across her back.

Sometimes, he reflects, wryly sad, forgiveness helps no one at all. Sometimes giving a wound time to heal only lets the rot set in. It is—

Well. A lesson for all of them, perhaps.

The silence lingers, heavy and disheartening, until Rowena breaks it with a quiet sniff. “I hate this,” she confesses miserably. “All of this, Salazar. I _hate_ it.”

Salazar opens his mouth, ready to offer platitudes, a reminder of just what their purpose is, and—

He stops. The words won't fit themselves to his tongue, won't emerge from his throat. Instead, he takes a breath, remembers Godric’s lips on his, soft red hair between his fingertips. The kiss in the tunnel already feels like a lifetime ago, and Salazar _wants_ with an avarice that’s always been on the edge of unhealthy.

“As do I,” he says instead, and it feels like the most abject of surrenders. “Stones, Rowena, I loathe this as well. How could you ever think that I don’t?”

There's a muffled snort, not at all ladylike but entirely Rowena. “That, Salazar, I knew without a doubt. So what are we going to do about it?”

Fifty years they’ve been trying to find a solution alone. Fifty years with nothing but frustration to show for it. Helga and Godric lack the technical skills to undo the creation of the Horcruxes, but…

“I think,” Rowena murmurs, slow and careful, and her hands fist in Salazar’s robes, “that we shouldn’t—shouldn’t trust ourselves, anymore. Not after—”

 _Not after this morning_ , she doesn’t say, and Salazar doesn’t ask what happened in Umbridge’s rooms. Doesn’t need to, because Godric and Rowena know each other’s weaknesses all too well. There's no doubt they used them liberally, even if they didn’t physically come to blows.

These words, however, are such a perfect mirror of Salazar’s earlier thoughts that he simply can't deny them any longer.

 “One more path. I have one more idea to try before we give up. And if that fails…we ask for help,” he says, the words on the edge of a sigh. “And we ask for forgiveness.”

Not easily bought, the latter, but Salazar can hope. Can pray, if that’s what it takes, though he’s long since lost his faith in anything but the four of them together.

 “Always,” Rowena whispers, and the word is fierce. “You have to know I have _always_ loved the three of you more than anything, Salazar. Helga, and Godric, and you—you’ve always been first in my heart. Helena couldn’t see that she was there too, but—”

 _Ah_ , Salazar thinks sadly. There's the button that Godric pressed. No doubt Rowena bit back just as viciously, but too many people have said Rowena Ravenclaw is made of ice and arrogance for her not to fear that it might be true. Especially after Helena’s betrayal, and were the girl not already dead, Salazar thinks he would curse her for it.

“Always,” he assures her, and when she looks up at him, lashes wet with the tears she won't allow to fall, he smiles. “Believe me, Rowena, your care for us has never been in doubt.”

Relief makes her return smile wan, full to the brim with old regrets, but she doesn’t bother to argue, which is a good sign.

“Things are going to change now,” she says with a sigh, pulling away a little.

Salazar lets her go, because he’s not prone to cling like Godric or Helga, and grimaces. “They always do,” he agrees, and it’s the lesson of a thousand years, but still so hard to remember.

At that Rowena laughs a little, amusement rising in blue eyes. “You could not sound less enthusiastic if you tried,” she informs him, rapping the backs of her knuckles against his bicep. “Cheer up, Salazar. _I'm_ the one who has to apologize to Godric in the morning.”

“Even if your words weren’t your own?” Salazar takes a careful step out of range—this correlation she has between physical affection and abuse is most certainly Godric’s fault, and he’s not a fan. Probably half the reason she does it, honestly.

Rowena snorts. “ _Especially_ then.” She pauses, considering, and then hums. “Perhaps he’d like to duel afterwards.”

“Other people hug,” Salazar informs her, exasperated. “Or shake hands. They don’t beat each other over the head with pointy bits of metal. You are aware of this, correct?”

With a laugh, she reaches up to lightly slap his cheek, then sails past him with long, gliding steps. “Get out of my Tower, Slytherin. Go lurk in the dungeons if you have to lurk somewhere. There are already more than enough gargoyles up here.”

“I don’t know why anyone puts up with you,” Salazar says crossly, but he follows her out to the staircase anyway.

Rowena casts him a wicked smile. “Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure,” she sing-songs, and Salazar rolls his eyes.

“The fact that you turned a _bawdy joke_ into your House motto only proves that you and Godric have far too much in common for anyone’s peace of mind.”

It makes her laugh, bright and amused, and Salazar pretends that wasn’t his purpose all along.

 

 

“Is she going to be all right?” Harry asks, faintly concerned, as they leave Helga to her hall full of moonlight.

It takes no effort at all for Godric to smile, even with the heaviness that’s been sitting in his chest since the morning. “Helga will be fine. She loves moments like this, and I wouldn’t want to disturb her further. Besides, she has no fondness for places like those we’re going to end up in.”

Harry grimaces a little at the reminder, but keeps pace with Godric nevertheless. Godric studies him for a long moment out of the corner of his eye, and then says gently, “No one on earth would think less of you if you didn’t want to come, Harry.”

The boy hesitates, biting his lower lip, and then says firmly, “ _I_ would think less of me, though.”

He’s so very much a Gryffindor it hurts, Godric thinks with a wan smile. He inclines his head, not about to argue with something like that, and steers them towards the steps down into the dungeons. If Salazar catches them, there will likely be lots of contained shouting involved, so Godric keeps half an eye ahead of them and a concealment charm on the tip of his tongue.

“We’re not leaving through the front?” Harry asks curiously, following him down the branching corridors.

“Not tonight,” Godric confirms. “If we want to get there in any reasonable amount of time we’re going to have to Apparate, and we can't do that inside the wards. Taking a boat across the lake is the quickest way to pass them, and easy enough to hide at night.”

There's a moment of consideration. “I thought the Headmaster could get around that. Why can't you?”

Godric debates with himself how to answer for a moment, but—Harry's been truthful with him, and he won't do any less, even if it paints the four of them in a poor light.

“Because we set up that ward right after Salazar left,” he admits on the edge of a sigh, and when Harry makes a startled sound Godric offers the boy a crooked smile. “We didn’t know if he was ever going to come back, or what would happen when he did. In that kind of situation, with children to protect…we wanted to have faith, but we couldn’t afford to take chances. The ward gave us time to prepare if anything _did_ happen, but it meant that as soon as Helga stepped down none of us could circumvent the charm.”

“ _Helga_?” Harry repeats, startled, and when Godric raises a brow at him in faint confusion he says, “Helga was the first Headmaster?”

“Headmistress,” Godric corrects, amused. “And really, who else would it be?”

Harry gives him a strange look. “Well…you?”

It makes Godric laugh, soft and sincere in the hush. “I'm flattered, Harry, but _bad idea_ doesn’t even _begin_ to cover that situation. I'm a soldier, and back then I was more soldier than anything else. A thousand years may have mellowed me, but I haven’t always been so well-adjusted.”

“Well, _I_ think you would have done well,” Harry says, a little stubbornly, and Godric gives him a soft smile, even as he comes to a halt before a large painting.

“I appreciate your faith in me,” he murmurs, then meets the eyes of the life-sized sphinx in the picture. She regards him coolly, and Godric bows to her, pulling his hood back. “Milady, I am blessed to stand before your beauty once again. That your wisdom outpaces even your loveliness leaves me humbled.”

The sphinx laughs, low and rumbling, pushing up from her belly to sit on the low hill of sand she’s painted on. “Sir Gryffindor. I missed your flattery these long years. You would pass, then?”

Godric nods, straightening up. “Indeed. I beg passage for my companion and myself.”

She hums, considering, and then says, “ _We hurt without moving. We poison without touching. We bear the truth and carry the lies, but woe betide those who judge us by size._ ”

Godric hides a grimace, because riddles are Rowena’s forte, not his. Still, he’s had to get into her common room enough times over the years that he has—reluctantly—become better at them than he had ever thought to be. He turns the phrasing over in his mind for a moment, _hurt_ and _poison_ and—

A crooked smile, and maybe on other days it would be harder to come to the answer, but right now Godric is all too aware of the power such things hold. “Words,” he answers, and watches the sphinx’s eyes crinkle in amusement. It makes him roll his own, because the paintings are absolutely the worst gossips in the school, and she doubtless knows exactly what occurred between himself and Rowena.

“Correct, Sir Gryffindor,” she approves, and the portrait swings open. “Visit again that we may trade riddles.”

“Of course, milady,” Godric agrees, and makes a note to pick Rowena’s brain for some the sphinx may not have heard yet. “Thank you.”

They take the long, twisting staircase that heads down, and it’s only after the portrait has swung shut and faded from view behind them that Harry glances back, then says, “You're…really polite to her.”

“A little courtesy never harmed anyone,” Godric tells him firmly. “It’s something the majority of the wizarding world would do better to remember.”

Harry considers that for a long moment. “But…I thought sphinxes were considered magical _creatures_?”

And in that, Godric thinks, rests one of the greatest foibles of wizarding-kind. He smiles wryly, ducking a vast cobweb that spans the staircase, and asks, “Tell me, Harry: did you ever learn _why_ sphinxes are classified as beasts rather than beings?”

“Er…no?” Harry doesn’t sound overly certain of that, however, and flushes a little when Godric raises a brow at him.

Godric doesn’t otherwise mention it, though; he glances down towards the faint glow coming from the foot of the stairs, and answers his own question. “It’s because while they are fully sentient they have ‘violent tendencies’, according to the Ministry. Beastly natures, prone to viciousness, and an inability to restrain their animalistic urges.”

Harry blinks, clearly startled. “Really?” he asks. “But—they had one in the Third Task. In the maze. She gave me the clue to the last obstacle. And…I thought she was reasonable?”

“Logical,” Godric agrees. “You’ll never meet anyone more prone to philosophical thought or twisty mind-games than a sphinx, but they have no compunctions about using violence if they need to. Much like some wizards I've met. It’s all a matter of perspective, and of wizards wanting to think themselves superior. Maybe, at one point, their views were justified, but after so many decades and so many advances, it’s hard to keep that mindset.”

“Like with werewolves, now that there's a Wolfsbane Potion,” Harry says quietly.

Godric hums in agreement, stepping off the staircase and onto the rough-hewn stone of the small dock. “Precisely. And with centaurs, and merfolk, and any number of other creatures. I find it quite sad, myself.”

“Me too,” Harry agrees, and then stops dead. “Er…”

That, at least, makes Godric laugh, knowing exactly what his hesitation is based on. “Have a little faith, Harry, please. It might look a bit worn right now, but that’s simple enough to fix.”

“If you say so,” Harry agrees doubtfully, and Godric rolls his eyes, stepping forward to lay a hand on the half-rotted hull of the small ship. A moment of will is all that’s needed to pull the threads of magic tight again, and with a groaning creak the vessel rights itself, timbers reforming and metal shedding rust. The twelve oars leap up out of the water, completely repaired, and slot themselves back into their holes, six on either side, as a gangplank slides down to thump against the stone at their feet. The figurehead, a dragon so carefully carved that it’s eerily lifelike, shakes off a thick coating of dust, then turns expectant ruby eyes on Godric, who salutes it cheerfully.

“…Wow,” Harry says, eyes wide.

Godric laughs, leaping lightly up the gangplank. “Helga’s work. Rowena and I did the first years’ boats, but Helga wanted something a little more reliable to get us across the Lake on a daily basis. Are you coming?”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Harry scrambles up after him. “Do the wards go all the way across the water, then?”

“Not quite,” Godric answers, rapping his knuckles against the wood and setting the ship in motion. It pulls out of the dock, then sets its oars in the water and starts to pick up speed, following the silver trail of the moon on the water. “About two-thirds of the way, if I remember correctly. We’ll Apparate from there, and the ship will wait for our return.”

Harry nods determinedly, pulling his cloak a little more tightly around his shoulders as his eyes fall on the far shore. A moment of spellwork to keep them out of sight and Godric joins him, leaning against the railing and raising his face to the chilly wind.

“I'm sorry we couldn’t bring your friends,” he says quietly, not wanting to break Harry's peace if he’s lost in thought. “None of you have Apparation licenses yet, though, and I can only take one person.”

Harry glances up, startled, and then smiles. “It’s all right,” he says. “I'm glad you're letting me come. And…I don’t think I want them to see it, really.”

Godric can most certainly understand that part. He nods, resting a hand on Harry's shoulder as they watch the halfway point of the lake approach. There's a flash of fin in the water below them, a vague shape that easily keeps pace from beneath the surface, and under any other circumstances Godric would stop and greet the merfolk who have lived in the lake for so long. There's no time, though; already they're going to be cutting things close as far as getting back in reasonable time is concerned, especially given that Godric has little idea what’s waiting for them.

“Here,” he says, just able to make out one of the anchor stones on the far shore as they pass it. On cue, the ship racks its oars, slowly gliding to a full stop, and Godric offers Harry his elbow. “Have you ever Apparated before, Harry?” he asks, trying to keep the mischief out of his face.

Judging by the wary look Harry shoots him, he doesn’t quite succeed, though Harry does wrap his fingers around Godric’s arm. “No,” he says cautiously. “Is it like a Portkey?”

Godric grimaces. “Worse.”

Harry goes faintly green, but nevertheless takes a deep breath, very clearly bracing himself. “Right. What do I have to do?”

“Think of our destination,” Godric tells him. “Picture it as clearly as you can, and don’t let go of me, all right?”

Firmly, Harry closes his eyes, and Godric focuses. Apparating to someone else’s image of a place is a little trickier than normal Apparation, but doable. Just a moment to let himself shape the magic to Harry rather than himself, another moment to let it gather, then step, _turn_ —

With a sharp crack, they reappear in the midst of a midnight graveyard. A statue of the Angel of Death towers over them, skeletal and carrying an upraised scythe. Mausoleums march across the space between them and a low stone wall, and the feeling of Dark magic is thick in the air even now.

Slowly, Harry uncurls his fingers from Godric’s arm, but his eyes are on the grave behind them. The name _Tom Riddle_ just barely shows in the moonlight, and Harry is stiff and frozen at his side.

Godric wants to say _I’ll protect you_ , but he knows it won't be welcome, even if it’s true. Instead, he touches Harry's shoulder again, lets him come back from whatever dark memory he’s seeing on his own. When Harry finally turns, glancing up at him, Godric offers him a small smile and asks, “Do you know where to go from here?”

It takes another moment, but Harry nods. “He—Voldemort likes to gloat,” he says grimly. “He talked a lot. That—that’s his father’s house up there.” He points at a large, gloomy house standing on the hillside above them. “His dad was a Muggle, but he said his mother was a witch from the village.”

Little Hangleton isn’t a large enough town to boast more than a handful of wizarding families, thankfully, and lingering magic should be simple enough to trace. Very few wizards ever manage to fit fully into Muggle society, and it makes them obvious.

“Let’s take a walk,” he suggests, brushing his cloak back to leave his sword free. More suspicious, perhaps, to anyone who sees them, but that’s all right; people will simply connect him to Gryffindor’s heir. “Hood up, if you don’t mind. Pettigrew saw the others, even though they kept their faces hidden, so no one should question a companion as long as they don’t recognize you.”

“Are we going to search the whole village?” Harry asks, even as he obliges, falling into step with Godric.

The rusted gate creaks as Godric eases it open, but there's no one nearby to hear, so he doesn’t bother to mask it. “Only if we have to. If there's a pub still open, they might know the closest wizarding families, or we could check the Riddle house.”

The suggestion gets him a faint grimace, but also a reluctant nod. “I don’t see any lights in the village. Should we check there first?”

Honestly, Godric has no more fondness for creepy, deserted houses with murdered occupants than it sounds like Harry does, but it’s their best bet. If Voldemort’s mother and father were married—and hopefully they were—the house will likely hold some record of it.

“If you insist,” he says dryly, and chuckles at the face Harry pulls. There's a clear road up to the house, paved and smooth even if it’s a little overgrown, so Godric turns his steps along its path, a fraction of his attention listening for any sounds out of the ordinary, while the rest is on Harry. The boy is a little pale, but just like Godric, having a task to complete helps him focus.

Salazar, when he’s feeling humorous, likes to compare it to a bored puppy.

(Salazar, if it’s not readily apparent, is a bastard, and Godric doesn’t know why he likes him as much as he does.)

“That was where he killed Cedric,” Harry says suddenly, when they’ve almost made it to the foot of the hill. The graveyard has faded into a patch of deeper shadows and strange moon-gilded shapes, only the towering angel still clear, but he glances back at it anyway, expression tight with a mix of grief and anger. “He said— _kill the spare_.”

If Godric could travel back in time, he would give just about anything to land in the graveyard in June, to save Harry from having to face what he did.

“Men like Voldemort,” he says grimly, “are truly the most pathetic creatures. If I could I would put every last one of them out of their misery, and all of their followers as well.”

The look Harry gives him is almost surprised, and it makes Godric smile, if crookedly. “If you're looking for mercy, Harry, it’s a reflex I'm not as familiar with as most would like. Especially when it concerns the murder of a Hogwarts student.”

“That…makes sense,” Harry allows, glancing at one of the looming stone gateposts as they pass it.

Godric hums, more acknowledgement than agreement. “I have a bad habit of seeing threats as something to be dealt with as quickly and efficiently as possible. If I ever make you uncomfortable, though, call me back. You're a friend, and I’ll listen. I know not everyone thinks quite the way I do.”

He doesn’t pause to see if there's relief on Harry's face—doesn’t want to, because such things are always vaguely gutting in those close to him. Instead, he quickens his steps a little, not leaving Harry behind, but making sure he gets to the door first without seeming as if he’s trying to. There are no wards, though, no spells at all, and a simple Alohomora undoes the lock.

The door groans heavily as it swings open, echoing through the deserted house, and Godric winces.

“That’s not creepy at all,” Harry says dryly, and Godric laughs almost despite himself.

“I've seen Muggle-repelling wards that are less so,” he agrees, stepping inside. A flick of his fingers conjures several orbs of witchfire, and they dart out, illuminating the room with a pale glow.

“Why not just use your wand for light?” Harry asks curiously, crossing the floor to study a low shelf lined with books.

Godric snorts, leaving him to it in favor of checking a low cabinet for any important documents. “Habit, mostly. Lumos hadn’t been invented yet when I was learning, and this is what I know best. Besides, Lumos tells someone exactly where your wand is. Better to let them assume you're not even holding it—gives you the advantage.”

“I’d never thought of that.” Harry glances up at the closest orb and asks, “Would you teach me your spell?”

“Of course. It’s _Inluceo_ , and flick your wand like you're tossing something from the tip back over your shoulder.” Giving up on the cabinet, which is full of hats and gloves and little else, Godric straightens and gives Harry a smile. “Want to try it now? We’ll need more to light the way up the stairs anyway.”

Harry nods quickly, pulling his wand from the pocket of his baggy jeans, and takes a breath. Firmly, he snaps out, “Inluceo!” giving his wand a hard flick, and witchfire sparks. It takes a moment for it to kindle, but after a heartbeat red light blooms. The orb hovers over the tip of Harry's wand for a moment, then darts up to hang halfway up the stairs.

“Good,” Godric says, a little surprised. “You got that very quickly.”

Harry flushes a little, nervously pushing at his glasses, but he’s grinning a bit as well. “Thanks.”

Godric smiles back, then leads the way up the creaking stairs. “I think we need to find some sort of study—somewhere they’d keep important documents. I know you said Riddle Senior abandoned his wife before Voldemort was born, but there must be _some_ record.”

“Probably,” Harry agrees, carefully avoiding a rotten spot in the wood. He glances around, eyes faintly narrowed, and says, “This place feels…familiar.”

That makes a faint touch of worry rise, but Godric firmly keeps it in check. “Oh? How so?”

Expression vaguely frustrated, Harry shakes his head. “I don’t know. It just feels like I've been here before.”

A locked door halfway down the first hallway opens onto a library, but quick glance shows no desks, just a few scattered chairs. Godric relocks it, and tries the next door. A bedroom, then a bathroom, and then another bedroom. The bedrooms are possibilities, if slim, so Godric mentally marks them and then takes the stairs up to the next floor.

“You said your scar hurts when Voldemort is close, or when he’s feeling something strong,” he says, glancing back at his companion. “That’s a connection, most certainly, but…how deep does it go?”

Harry's silent for a long moment, considering, and then says slowly, “I get…visions, sometimes, or dreams. Of what Voldemort’s doing right then. I can't control it, and I don’t think he really can either.”

That’s…worrisome. It’s a very deep connection for the backlash of an interrupted curse, even if it was a Killing Curse. Godric frowns, turning the matter over, even as he answers, “Well, it stands to reason that Voldemort was using this house before he got his body back. It was close enough to the graveyard that Pettigrew could easily set things up, and Voldemort likely considers it his, since it belonged to the Riddle family. Maybe you saw him here?”

There's something like relief in Harry's voice, very close to an eager agreement as he nods. “I think I did! Before the Triwizard Tournament, he was giving Wormtail orders—something about a Ministry employee. The room looked like the one downstairs.”

They should probably avoid that one, then, or at least Harry should. Godric doesn’t want him exposed to any more of Voldemort’s magic than he’s already encountered, and who knows what traps the bastard laid down there? Safer to give it a miss.

“Hopefully he didn’t go through the documents,” Godric says, letting a flicker of amusement into his tone as he tries another door. “Though I can't imagine a Dark Lord would have much interest in paperwork—aha!”

Harry leans around his shoulder, the little orb of red light swooping past them to illuminate the small study. There are still papers piled on the desk, and a filing cabinet stands half-open. Photos stand grouped on the partially filled bookshelves, but one is conspicuously turned facedown. That’s the first one Godric reaches for, turning it over. It’s clear of dust, so it’s unlikely it fell over on its own, and the subject—

“He looks just like Voldemort used to,” Harry says with surprise, peering around his arm. Obligingly, Godric tilts the photo so he can see it more clearly, and he nods confidently. “That’s what he looked like before he turned all…snake-faced. Just older.”

“I think we can safely say that’s his father, then.” Godric carefully frees the black-and-white photo from the frame and flips it over, but there's nothing written on the reverse side. A little disappointed, he glances back at the couple, stiff and poised in the way of most Muggle photographs. They were a strange couple, Riddle Senior handsome and confident in bearing, the woman plain and tired-looking, cockeyed and wearing a smile that’s on the very edge of desperate.

“Hmm.” Godric replaces the picture, then sets it back down. “File cabinet or desk?”

“Desk,” Harry says quickly, ducking down to start opening drawers, and Godric sighs and starts digging through binders. Property records, tax records, accounting books, birth certificates, a carefully-maintained book of death certificates…

At the very back of the middle shelf, his finger snags on something, and Godric blinks. He bends down, summoning another ball of witchfire above his head, and squints.

There's a heavy sheet of parchment wedged back between the shelves, yellowed with age and covered with ornate script. Carefully, Godric tugs it free, trying not to tear it, and the words _Certificate of Marriage_ are the very first thing he sees. The husband’s name is Tom Riddle, and the wife—

“Merope Gaunt,” he says aloud, and Harry glances up at him. Godric holds the certificate up in triumph, and adds, “She must still have been living at home when they were married—her address is listed as the Gaunt House. I think it’s just a short way down the road, actually.”

 “Brilliant,” Harry says with some relief. “Does that mean we can leave now?”

“On to the next creepy house,” Godric agrees cheerfully, and gets a roll of Harry's eyes in return. He chuckles, folding the certificate neatly and pocketing it, then straightening and brushing the dust from his knees. “I should have thought to bring brooms. Ah well. Lessons for next time.”

“The Firebolt would make this a lot easier,” Harry agrees almost wistfully.

Godric chuckles as he lets Harry lead the way back to the front door. “I could Apparate us, if you want.” The way Harry blanches turns it into a full-blown laugh, and he raises his hands in surrender at the glare that accompanies it. “All right, I see you're not a fan either. Neither am I, honestly.”

“It feels like being sucked through a straw,” is Harry's assessment.

That’s as accurate as anything Godric has ever heard. “It really does. Best saved for when there’s no other choice, in my opinion.”

When they’re back on the road, Harry pauses, glancing back the way they came. “In the village, or…?”

A quick Point-Me Spell says not. “This way.” Godric turns to the left, where the road bends its way towards a thick forest.

“Of course,” Harry says dryly. “I should have guessed. From the creepy house to the creepier forest. At least it’s not full of acromantulas.”

Startled, Godric raises a brow at him. “We’re a bit far from the Island of Borneo. I’m fairly sure rumors of an acromantula colony here are—”

“Confirmed,” Harry says, very certainly and not all that happily. “They're living in the Forbidden Forest.”

Well. Godric frowns a little, wondering if Gwenhwyfar knows. While the Forbidden Forest is most definitely a sanctuary for magical creatures, Godric has always tried to discourage any with a voracious appetite for human flesh from settling so close to the school. Something to look into, then.

“If there was ever a good reason to create a few hundred illegal Portkeys,” he mutters. “Or maybe just one really big one shaped like food. Send them somewhere they can't _eat students_.”

“Ron will cry with gratitude,” Harry says wryly. “He _really_ doesn’t like spiders.”

“And I'm sure encountering those ones didn’t exactly help,” Godric agrees. The paranoia is enough that he places a hand on his sword hilt as they approach the edge of the trees. His instincts are generally good, and right now he can't feel any hostile eyes on them, so he pushes past the first line of gnarled trunks.

It’s a fair walk, especially in the dark beneath the looming trees. More proof that Merope Gaunt was a witch, really; wizards are fond of hard-to-reach places, and this definitely counts.

“There,” Harry says quietly, touching his arm, and points ahead. A small shack is just visible in between the trunks, practically right in front of them. Godric was so busy looking for an actual house that he almost missed the skeleton of it, hidden in the gloom.

“Cheery,” he mutters, but turns off, pushing through the overgrown brush to approach the front door. Whatever wards were once in place, there's only tattered threads left now, but—

That’s one hell of a powerful charm on the entrance for an abandoned shack. It’s fresher than the ward remnants, too.

Godric didn’t quite come here expecting to find anything beyond more hints to Voldemort’s history, some bit of insight into what and where his Horcruxes might be, but he’s willing to bet his sword that Voldemort put that ward up, and that whatever behind it is important.

“Godric?” Harry prompts, but his eyes are sharp behind his glasses.

Godric laughs, and there’s a wicked edge to it. “Eureka,” he says, and pulls out his wand.


	16. XVI

Harry isn’t entirely sure what he expected from a secret house hidden away in the woods and meaningful to Voldemort, but he can safely say that his expectations didn’t include anywhere near this much dust.

“It’s been some time since anyone was here,” Godric says absently, sweeping his wand through the air with a flicker of pale orange light. Several spots light up—the unmoving clock on the mantel, the edges of the window, a picture on the wall, the tightly-closed door behind them, and a section of floorboards near the center of the shack. The glow lingers for a moment before it fades, and Godric makes a thoughtful sound.

Harry casts a brief glance back at the hole in the wall behind them, wary of what little structural integrity the shack had to begin with being damaged, but steps inside when Godric moves further into the room. “Cozy,” he mutters, and Godric laughs, even though his eyes are still sharp.

“Shame on me, letting in a draft,” Godric jokes, casting Harry a smile that’s full of a predator’s satisfaction.

The door probably would have let in less of one, but Godric had muttered something about sloppy spellwork and assuming opponents would have manners, and had simply circled around to the back wall where the wards were apparently sparser. Harry's definitely filing that trick away for later, just in case he ever has to break into warded buildings. The way his life tends to go, it’s definitely not impossible.

“Maybe we should dust to show we’re sorry,” Harry suggests, watching his trainers sink into a good two inches of filth on the floor. This place doesn’t even have the dubious advantage of Kreacher’s half-mad care, the way Grimmauld Place does.

Godric snorts. “I’ll conjure you a broom,” he answers dryly, and crouches down, holding a hand over the floor like he’s feeling for heat.

“Something wrong?” Harry asks, though when he steps up to Godric’s elbow the man doesn’t wave him away.

With a quiet hum, Godric rocks back on his heels, tugging his hood down. His red hair looks like flames in the flickering illumination of his witchfire, and the light catches on the angle of his frown. “There are a lot of curses here, and severe, all of them. Salazar is a lot better at undoing spells than I am—this might take a while.”

Harry hasn’t quite been able to look at the boy who he previously knew as Solomon Silvius straight on since he realized who he was, and doesn’t really want to think about him now. “You think it’s something important?” he asks instead, and instantly wishes he’d kept his mouth shut; it would hardly have so many spells if it wasn’t.

Thankfully, Godric either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. “Perhaps. I don’t think the charms are old, and they're definitely not older than the ones on the door—odds are it was the same person who did both.”

“Voldemort?” Harry asks, nudging his glasses up and trying to ignore the eerie shiver that slides down his spine. They're too close to the graveyard for comfort, even now, and their visit to the Riddle House only made things worse. Thinking of Voldemort there, murdering his own family and plotting his resurrection, isn’t exactly putting Harry at ease.

With a tip of his head, Godric considers for a moment, then raises one shoulder in a brief shrug. “I honestly can't imagine it would be anyone else. You said Voldemort is obsessed with blood purity and his lineage—that would have to be through his mother, if his father was a Muggle. So this house— _her­_ house—must have meaning to him. No one else would realize that, though, which makes it a perfect hiding spot.”

“A perfect hiding spot for _what_?” Harry wants to know.

Something very old and tired crosses Godric’s face, half-hidden in the shifting light and buried a moment later. “I believe Helga and I told you about the devices Voldemort created? With pieces of his soul in them to tie him to life?”

Harry does remember that, though he’d been a little distracted by the news of the attack on Malfoy Manor that followed shortly afterwards. “You think one of them is here?”

Godric’s smile is grim. “I certainly hope so. Voldemort hasn’t made a move yet that my spell can find, so clearly he doesn’t believe we know about his Horcruxes, but if I wave one in his face maybe that will change his mind.”

It’s hard not to grin at the thought of Voldemort’s snakey face when that happens, though admittedly Harry doesn’t try all that hard. “I _really_ want to see that,” he says, and Godric glances up with a flash of surprise that shifts into a laugh.

“If we’re face to face, I’ll make sure to get a good look and save the memory for you,” he agrees, amused. Before Harry can ask what that means—how is he supposed to save a memory?—Godric leans forward, splaying a hand just over the floor and narrowing his eyes. “Brace yourself. I'm not good at subtle, so this might get a little messy.”

It would probably be smarter to worry after hearing that, but Harry mostly feels a flicker of excitement at the thought of watching Godric Gryffindor—one of Hogwarts’s Founders, creator of Harry's House, the greatest duelist in the world—actually let loose. Harry's seen him do flashy things already—repairing the boat, the rain when they first met, changing his age, fussing over a dragon like it was a housecat—but he does it so easily that it feels natural. Simple. This doesn’t look like it will be, though.

“Should I move?” he asks, even though he doesn’t really want to.

“If I lose control even that much, I’ll probably lose it all the way, and without dropping you back on the main road there's no way to make sure you're safe. But I won't let you get hurt, Harry, and I mean that.” Godric gives him a wry smile and pulls his wand out of his sleeve. He doesn’t use it, just grips it loosely in his right hand and presses his left to the wood, then murmurs something Harry can’t manage to catch.

For a long moment, nothing happens. Then, with a crackle like electricity, crimson light sweeps up around him, surging with a power Harry can feel against his skin. The floorboards glow a bloody violet that shifts to deep blue, then rot-black, and Harry leans away instinctively as the color creeps outward like decay given form.

With a low, angry sound, Godric rears back, and for a moment in the shifting light he looks unearthly, brilliance flaring out around him. From Harry's angle it looks almost like a lion’s mane, but in an instant the image is gone. Godric leans forward, slamming a hand down on the wood, and speaks a word that makes Harry's ears ring. The light brightens, intensifies in a rush, and then condenses like it’s being sucked into whatever is beneath the floor.

With one last wash of red, it vanishes, and Godric takes a heavy breath, sitting back on his heels and carefully lifting his hand. There's a thin sheen of black covering it, and he grimaces like he’s in pain, clutching it against his chest for a moment.

“Godric?” Harry demands, scrambling forward a step to see where he’s hurt, if there’s a way to fix it. “You—are you okay?”

“Fine,” Godric says, mostly unbelievable given the way he’s carefully not moving his fingers. “I just—might have gone a bit too fast breaking that last one. Damn.”

Fear twists through Harry's chest, but he shoves it down. “What happened?”

Thankfully, Godric blinks twice, and some immediate awareness comes back into his face as he glances up at Harry. “A curse meant to kill,” he says grimly. “I can't unwind spells the way Salazar can, but I thought I could trigger them and contain them.” He must catch the horror that flashes across Harry's face, because he raises his good hand and says gently, “It's not going to kill _me_ , Harry, don’t worry. I'm a bit tougher than that.”

Which probably means anyone else would have died already, Harry acknowledges, and can't help but give Godric a wry smile. “Is that the kind of thing Helga would yell at you for?”

Godric winces. “We’re not going to find out, because we’re not going to _tell_ her. I still owe you Christmas in Godric’s Hollow, and I can't follow through with that if I'm dead at her wandpoint.”

Harry grins, equally at Godric’s words and the sight of the black coating on Godric’s hand falling away like motor oil beading off his skin. Underneath the skin is reddened and looks almost raw, but Godric shakes it out and flexes his fingers carefully, and then says cheerfully, “There we are, good as new! Shall we take a look at what this Dark Lord was trying so hard to hide?”

“Sure,” Harry agrees, and before Godric can use his hurt hand, he reaches for the floorboards himself. Godric gives him an amused look, but doesn’t protest, and when Harry gets his fingers in the cracks and pulls up the first board, he takes it without comment and sets it aside.

There's a flash of gold in the hollow, and Harry leans forward curiously, squinting through the smudges on his glasses. The next board comes away even easier, and he reaches down into the hollow, getting his hands on something small and heavy and cold. A golden box, when he brings it up, beautiful but also rather ostentatious, with no latch.

“After all of that he’s too good for locks?” Harry mutters, and Godric laughs.

“Never underestimate the arrogance of any man who would willingly call himself a Dark Lord,” he says with amusement. “I've found there are always new depths to which they can sink.”

That’s certainly true of Voldemort, and Harry hopes he never has cause to find out with any other Dark Lords. Carefully, he flips the top of the box open, not entirely sure what he’s expecting, but—

Not this. Not a ring, plain gold with a heavy black stone set into it, something etched across the stone’s face. It’s not particularly pretty, more like something Harry would pick up from beside a river than one of Voldemort’s secret treasures, and…rather underwhelming.

But at his side, Godric makes a quiet sound and reaches out, plucking up the ring and turning it so that the light from his witchfire falls across the face. Harry peers at it, not quite able to pick out what he’s looking at until the pale gold orb drops closer, and suddenly the design on the stone is clear. A circle divided by a vertical line, surrounded by a triangle, not a symbol Harry has ever seen before. He looks from the ring back up at Godric, and…stops.

There's something like awe on Godric’s face, a wondering smile pulling at his mouth. He leans forward, cupping the ring in his hands, and in that moment he could be any age at all, a boy or a man or anything in between. The expression he’s wearing is one Harry is intimately familiar with. It’s the one he feels on his own face whenever the wizarding world introduces a new marvel, something uncomplicated in its joy. Like flying, like a ceiling made of stars, like feeling a dragon push its head against his hand.

“Oh,” Godric breathes, and then he’s grinning, looking up at Harry with something bright and burning in his expression. “Stars and stones, Harry, isn’t it amazing? I never thought I’d see another one of them in person, but this—it has to be.”

“Has to be what?” Harry asks, bewildered, looking from the ring to Godric again.

“One of the Deathly Hallows,” Godric says, as if that should mean something. As if that should mean _everything_. When Harry fails to say anything, though, he glances up, closing his fingers over the ring, and says, “It’s an old wizarding fairy tale. Three items, supposedly created by Death itself, each with incredible power. This—if it’s what I think…” He trails off, opening his fingers again to study the ring, and says, almost to himself, “If the Gaunts were an old enough family that they could have married with the Peverells, but didn’t know what they were taking on…”

“What is it supposed to do?” Harry asks, trying not to sound to skeptical.

He apparently doesn’t succeed, because Godric gives him a wry smile. “The Resurrection Stone is supposed to recall the souls of the dead from Death’s grasp,” he answers, and his tone is light but the look in his eyes as they fall on the stone is anything but. He stares at it for a long moment, then sighs softly, reaching out to drop it back into its box and carefully, gently close the lid.

“Godric?” Harry looks from the box to his friend, in time to catch the flash of old, half-faded sadness that flickers across his features. “You aren’t going to—?”

There's a long pause, like Godric is wrestling with himself, and then he glances up again. “There's nothing to be served by clinging to ghosts, Harry,” he says quietly. “And…maybe the Hallows were created by Death, but I find it far easier to believe that it was simply clever men that created them. There isn’t a man alive who can cheat death, and I doubt something as small as a stone would let them.”

It was only a half-formed thought, a whisper of an idea that Harry could see his parents again, like that night in the graveyard or those moments before the Mirror of Erised, but it still feels like something crushing to hear the Resurrection Stone might not be real. Predictable, but painful.

“It’s not real, then?” Harry asks, and is almost surprised that his voice comes out steady.

There's very little of actual humor in Godric’s smile. “Resurrection, I think, may be a strong word. But shall we see?” He touches the box, but his eyes are on Harry. “I laid my ghosts to rest long ago, but if it _does_ work, perhaps you can find a use for it.”

Harry thinks about what Godric is offering, about calling back someone he loved, and…he doesn’t want to say yes, but he also can't quite bring himself to say no. He chews on his lip for a moment, undecided, and almost jumps when a hand curls around his shoulder.

“Why don’t we try?” Godric asks gently, and there's understanding in his face, a kind of helpless humor. “It would take a stronger man than I to refuse to even make the attempt.”

 _But you were going to_ , Harry wants to say. Godric had put the ring down, closed the box, and maybe it’s that he’s had so many years learning to let go, but. But in a thousand years, surely he’s lost more people than Harry can even count.

The thought of seeing his family, though, of meeting them again—Harry is too selfish to turn that down right now, so close to the graveyard where he saw their images less than a year ago. They’d been converging on Voldemort, had no time for more than a few words to him, and Harry wants to hear their voices again more than anything.

He doesn’t think he can stand it if they're just false images like in the Mirror, though. Not again.

With a gentle creak of hinges, Godric opens the box again, carefully lifting the ring out. He slides it onto his finger, takes a breath, and closes his eyes. One twist, another, a third—

Between one breath and the next, a woman stands in front of them, tall and broad with a crown of sun-gold braids and a small smile. There's a massive sword strapped across her back, over her cloak, and she looks…substantial. More so than a ghost, at least, and almost as much so as the memory-given-form of Riddle from the diary.

“Little lion,” she says gently, dropping to one knee in front of Godric. “How you’ve grown.”

“Winnie,” Godric returns, and for once there's no smile on his face, just regret and grief and an old pain, half-faded but still all too present. He reaches up like he’s going to touch her, and says, “Falcon Company, what happened to them—I'm sorry.”

His mother’s sister, Harry remembers with a start. This has to be Winnifred, the leader of the mercenary company where Godric was raised. Godric had never mentioned what happened to her, and Harry hadn’t thought to ask, but the regret on Godric’s face makes him think that whatever it was, they didn’t part ways peacefully.

“That’s all done with,” Winnifred tells him, and her eyes are kind, loving. “You are—”

Godric laughs, and Harry jerks, because that sound wasn’t humor. It was violence and pain and shame, twisted through with something that’s almost hatred. He opens his eyes, and the emotion in them is enough to steal Harry's breath completely.

“You’re a pretty thought,” he tells Winnifred, framing her face with the hand that bears the ring. He doesn’t try to touch, though, and the twist of his mouth is anything but fond. “But you're nothing else, are you? Telling me what I want to hear, what I _need_ you to say, but—the Winnifred I knew would never be so forgiving, even after a thousand years. And it’s her right not to be.”

The image opens her mouth, but before she can speak so much as a word, Godric pulls the ring from his finger and drops it back into the box. She vanishes like she was never there at all, and Godric splays a hand over his face, bending forward to hide his expression. He isn’t quick enough to hide a flash of too-bright eyes, a smear of wetness he quickly tries to brush away, and Harry’s throat feels tight with sympathetic horror. Like the Mirror of Erised, a desire given form, but…worse than a ghost in the end. Far more gutting when they disappear and leave nothing behind.

Carefully, Harry presses a hand to Godric’s shoulder, not sure how much comfort he can offer but still willing to try. He doesn’t ask what really happened, or why Winnifred wouldn’t forgive Godric, but he leans a little closer, hoping that his presence will at least be slightly grounding, will show Godric he isn’t alone.

“I suppose,” Godric says, faintly rough but steady, “that this is as good as proof that it wasn’t Death who created the Hallows. Humans do so love to fool themselves, and that will never change.”

“They're…thoughts?” Harry ventures carefully, watching the dust motes swirl through the witchfire’s light. No footprints where the woman stood, no impression in the dust on the floor where she knelt, no hint at all that she was ever there, and that’s painful enough to consider when Harry doesn’t even know her outside of Godric’s stories. For Godric, no matter how old the wound, it’s likely far worse.

“Desires,” Godric corrects, sitting back on his heels and giving Harry a tired smile. He presses his hand over Harry's, squeezing gently, and doesn’t let go even as he looks away. “To call a loved one back—that’s already a strong desire. And the Stone must feed off it, building an image, showing you what you expect. That’s not cheating death, it’s practically courting it.”

Any thoughts of using the Stone himself have vanished, and Harry reaches out and very deliberately tips the lid of the box down, shutting the ring away. “Why would Voldemort use _that_ to make a Horcrux?” he wants to know. “He doesn’t have—he doesn’t _love_ people like that, or have anyone close enough to bring back.”

Godric frowns thoughtfully, tilting his head as he considers, before finally shrugging. “Perhaps he didn’t know. Perhaps he didn’t care. Most of the world considers the Deathly Hallows to be little more than a bedtime story about the dangers of arrogance. I did as well for a long time, but one of the few duels I ever lost was to a man who claimed he carried another of the Hallows, the Elder Wand. It made me curious, so I looked into them. Most wizards wouldn’t bother, though.”

Wizards, it seems, don’t bother with a lot of things they probably should. Harry grimaces a little, eyeing the box warily, and asks, “Are we taking it back with us?”

“Best not to leave it here,” Godric agrees, picking it up. He weighs it in his hand for a moment, then sighs a little and tucks it into the pocket of his cloak, shaking his head. “A marvel of magic, but not the one I had thought to find,” he says rather sadly, pushing to his feet. He offers Harry a hand up and a smile, this one with some of his normal humor leeching back into it. “Probably a good thing that wasn’t _actually_ Winnie, come to think of it. Intangible or not, I'm sure she’d have found some way to kick my arse into shape again. It was always one of her favorite pastimes.”

Harry grins back, more out of relief at seeing Godric acting normal than anything. “Like Hermione, then?”

“Hermione with a longsword,” Godric corrects, and this grin actually reaches his eyes. “And a lot more muscles. And with a focus on beating other people black and blue, rather than books.”

Harry winces as Godric pulls him to his feet, because that doesn’t sound fun at _all_. It does make Godric laugh, though, so it’s not entirely a bad thought.

“Back to Hogwarts now?” Harry asks, brushing off the cloak Helga had conjured for him.

Godric hums, casting a quick Tempus charm to check the time and then sliding his wand back up his sleeve. “Likely our best option—it’s getting late. Well, early.”

Harry honestly isn’t tired, even though they left the castle immediately after his detention with Umbridge. Being out with Godric, following the trail of Voldemort’s actions and plans—it’s left a thrum of adrenaline in his veins, a curl of intent curiosity in his head. He doesn’t mind finding the pieces and watching them slot together, even though he’s never had much patience. Godric’s presence probably helps with that some, though. He’s…fun to spend time with, which isn’t exactly something Harry's thought about anyone outside of the friends who are close to his age. Even Sirius, to an extent, leaves him feeling conflicted and vaguely unhappy after their interactions over the summer, but not Godric.

“All right,” he says anyway, because there's class in the morning, and Umbridge’s detentions leave him tired enough as it is, even with Godric healing the pain of the Blood Quill each night.

Godric smiles at him, offering his arm again. “Ready to be sucked through another straw?” he jokes, and when Harry makes a face at him he laughs. “Buck up, it’s just one Apparation. I had to use ten or twelve to get back to London in time to catch the train.”

That sounds absolutely awful, but it still doesn’t make Harry any more excited for this trip. He grips Godric’s elbow, though, picturing the deck of the boat in his mind, and feels Godric turn sharply on his heel, pulling Harry with him. A rush, a twist, that moment of awful compression and feeling he’s being squished and stretched simultaneously, and then they're touching down, Godric’s boots thumping against the wood as he comes to a stop. He catches Harry as Harry staggers, and it’s a good thing, because Harry can feel his ears ringing as the world swims.

“Ugh,” he manages unhappily.

Godric smiles sympathetically, helping him sink down on one of the cushioned benches and then taking a seat beside him. “It’s over with, at least,” he offers, as the boat curves into a lazy turn and heads back towards the castle. “And we accomplished far more than I expected tonight. Thank you, Harry.”

“Thanks for letting me come,” he says, and it’s entirely truthful. After an entire summer feeling like everyone is trying to shut him out at every turn, having Godric want his help, _ask_ for it, and be so open with him—it’s just about the greatest relief Harry can imagine.

Godric chuckles, leaning back against the side of the boat and stretching his legs out in front of him, tall boots crossed at the ankles. “Maybe next time we can do something a bit more fun.”

Harry's already familiar enough with Godric to realize that _fun_ , for him, has equal odds of being a quest to visit a manticore or a trip to an ice cream parlor. He grins regardless, though, because honestly either one would probably be similarly entertaining at this point, as long as Godric was there. And…there's something wonderful about that, isn’t there? An easy sort of joy in finding wonder in anything, whether small or large. It makes Harry remember his first steps into Diagon Alley, Hagrid’s smile when he presented Harry with his first birthday cake. Good things, never quite forgotten, but buried. Buried under the threat of Voldemort, and Harry is stubborn enough that he’s decided he won't let Voldemort take even those things from him. Not anymore.

“Can Ron and Hermione come?” he asks. “If it’s not something dangerous.”

When he glances over, Godric’s smile has softened, turned warmer. “I don’t see why not. We’ll save that for a weekend, though, so Hermione doesn’t have to reschedule her homework.”

Hermione absolutely would, Harry knows, and he can't help but laugh at the thought. “Probably best, yeah,” he agrees, and glances up as the moonlight cuts off into shadow, Hogwarts’s outline falling over them. It’s just as beautiful as it was the other night, partially lit but still managing to glow against the backdrop of the starry sky, and Harry stares up at it, Godric companionably silent at his side, until the boat glides back into the tunnel and bumps gently up against the dock.

“What are you going to do with the ring?” Harry asks as they step onto dry land, watching as the dragon figurehead dips down to let Godric run a hand over its wooden snout. Just like Gwenhwyfar did, Harry thinks with amusement. He wonders if all animals react to Godric like that, or only dragons and thestrals. Or maybe just things that can eat him, judging by what Harry's seen so far.

Godric snorts, and with a last pat he leaps from the dock to the shore, landing lightly. “Not leave it in the dorm, that’s for certain,” he answers dryly. “Dangerous magical artifacts and a distinct lack of privacy don’t mix well, I my experience.”

Riddle’s diary in second year proved that all too well, Harry thinks. After that experience, he’d rather—

The thoughts connect, ad Harry stops short.

“Godric?” he says, and forces himself to swallow around the lump in his throat when he remembers Ginny, so still and pale on the Chamber floor.

Godric must hear something in his tone, because he turns, and just like that, Harry has all of his attention. It’s almost unnerving, how readily Godric is willing to listen to him, the way he takes everything Harry says seriously and doesn’t try to brush him off. Leaf-green eyes snap to Harry and don’t waver, even as Godric makes a wordless questioning sound.

Harry takes a breath. “You—you said the Horcruxes had a piece of Voldemort’s soul in them. What would happen if it started, er. Draining the life from someone?”

Godric blinks, frowns as he considers the question. “Mm. I believe it would provide the necessary energy for the soul fragment to come back to life, as it were. To rebuild its physical form and outgrow the confines of the item that contains it.”

Exactly what Riddle was trying to do. Harry grimaces, pressing a hand over the scar from the basilisk’s fang, and says, “I think—I think we found one, three years ago. Riddle made a diary, and the memory of him inside of it—that’s what opened the Chamber of Secrets and set the basilisk on the students. Fawkes and I destroyed it with one of the basilisk’s fangs, though.”

Godric’s expression is very, very serious. “Basilisk venom would be one of the only things that could manage that,” he confirms, rubbing a thumb over the ruby set into his sword. “The Sorting Hat failed to mention that part of the tale.”

“Fawkes brought it after Riddle explained,” Harry offers. “Riddle­—he liked to talk a lot. There was—mostly boasting, but he said his diary had been feeding on all of Ginny’s darkest secrets and fears, and that he’d—he’d put some of his soul back into her, to make her do what he wanted.”

That gets him a grimace, rueful and reluctantly amused. “Ah yes, the ego of a madman is ever a dangerous but convenient thing. That does sound very much like a Horcrux, unfortunately. I'm grateful you remembered, Harry.” Godric smiles, and this time it’s warm again, directed right at Harry. “And that you were braver at twelve than most grown men, to be able to destroy it as you did.”

Harry feels his face flush and his ears grow hot, and ducks his head. “I had to save Ginny,” he mumbles, because calling him _brave_ makes it sound very much like he had a choice, and—

A hand clasps his shoulder, and when he glances up he finds that Godric is still smiling, eve fonder and kinder than before. “There was always the choice to walk away,” he tells Harry. “But it’s not one you allowed yourself to make, and that? That’s the brave part, Harry. You see someone in trouble and you help. It makes you a far better person than most.”

Harry hasn’t the first clue how to respond to that, doesn’t think he could get his throat to work even if he did. Thankfully, Godric must see that, because he chuckles, claps Harry lightly on the shoulder, and steps away. “That’s one Horcrux destroyed, then, and we have a second. There are at least three others that I know of, and if Voldemort made five, he probably was aiming for a specific number. Seven is one of the most powerful, so I’d say seven Horcruxes is a safe bet. Insane, most certainly, but a safe bet.”

How unnerving, to be believed so easily, with little proof to offer beyond his memory, Harry thinks, following Godric back up the stairs. Godric hadn’t even hesitated to accept his theory, though, hadn’t questioned it. And maybe that makes Godric the foolish one, but…it feels like Harry's weightless, in a way he hasn’t been since Wormtail escaped and doomed Sirius to a life on the run. It’s certainly a stark difference from the tension and fear of this past summer.

Harry is so _unspeakably_ grateful that Godric came back to Hogwarts, that Harry managed to be at the right time and place to find his name on the map. He can't imagine what this year would be like without him.

 

 

Helga looks quietly pleased with herself when Godric passes the Hufflepuff table the next morning, and the smile she gives him is about the closest she ever gets to smug. Clearly something’s happened that she’s had a direct hand in, but when Godric raises a curious brow at her, she just waves him off, caught up in a conversation with the other members of her House. Godric shoots her a look that promises he’ll get answers later, and she sticks her tongue out at him in response, making him laugh.

“Now there's a cheerful face!” a voice crows, and Godric suddenly finds a redheaded twin on each of his elbows, their arms linked. Fred and George beam at him with identical expressions of merry mischief as they steer him towards the end of the Gryffindor table that’s only sparsely occupied at this hour of the morning.

“Far too cheerful to be the face of the man who so cruelly abandoned us,” George laments on his left.

“Left us forsaken,” Fred adds.

“To waste away without the solace of his charming company,” George adds, and they pull Godric down onto the bench without letting go of him.

Godric chuckles, letting himself be dragged without protest. “My auntie always said playing hard to get was best,” he says primly, and pretends that even passing mention of Winnifred doesn’t ache somewhere deep in his chest. Seeing that image of her was no balm at all, especially when she acted as he wanted her to, rather than how he knew she should. “How would I know you were serious if you didn’t chase after me? Or lie in wait for me, as it were. Your ambush skills are certainly top tier.”

“Thanks you,” Fred responds, grinning. “We’ve been practicing—”

“—For _years_ now—” George puts in.

“—and I believe we can say without hubris—”

“—oh, never that—”

“—that we are masters of our craft,” Fred finishes, grinning at his twin.

Godric eyes one, then then other, and pulls his arms free, turning in his seat and bracing his back against the table so he can see them both at once. “As lovely as it is to experience your dulcet voices in chorus on this fine morning,” he says dryly, “I get the feeling you cornered me and dragged me off to a darkened corner for less than innocent reasons. Should I fear for my virtue, you cads?”

Fred and George trade glances, then look around the mostly unoccupied table deliberately.

“You know, Fred,” Fred says, “he may have a point.”

“Indeed he may, George,” George answers, putting on an aghast expression. “We failed to take into account your delicate constitution when we staged this intervention, Griffiths. How unworthy of us!”

“Intervention?” Godric raises a pointed brow. “Now there's a shocking turn of events. For what cause are you intervening, dare I ask?”

George’s grin is bright, but it doesn’t entirely warm his eyes. “Well, Mister Griffiths, seeing as we’re both responsible older brother types—”

“Against our will, you understand,” Fred interjects amiably, though his brown eyes are careful as well.

“Entirely,” George agrees. “One of those bad habits, you see. But we can't turn it off.”

“Not when we’ve noticed that you disappear an awful lot.” Fred waves a hand. “And see, we don’t care to stick our noses in other people’s business—”

“Never,” George agrees virtuously.

“—but, well. Harry's family,” Fred finishes, and meets Godric’s eyes squarely, just a hint of a threat there. “He might be the Boy Who Lived, but he’ll always be ickle Harrikins to us.”

“Wouldn’t want anyone taking advantage of a little brother,” George says. “Not that we think you will, of course—”

“—but if you _were_ to consider it, Gred and I—”

“—well, we thought it best to bring to your attention that we _are_ rather famous—”

“—infamous—”

“—oh, yes, that’s a good word, _infamous_ , isn’t it—”

“—and we certainly wouldn’t want anything to happen to Harry, be it heartbreak or—”

“—anything more _physical_ , by your hand or someone else’s, if you catch our drift.” George offers up a bright smile, full of good will and the fierceness of a lion beneath. His and Fred’s gazes don’t waver as they watch Godric, waiting for a response.

Godric studies them in return for a long moment, assessing but also faintly warmed. It takes effort not to smile, because it’s _good_ to know that Harry has people in his corner, ready to keep him safe. Perhaps not the adults who _should_ , but Fred and George are hardly second best.

“Before this conversation goes any further,” he says, making up his mind, “I feel I should make you aware of the fact that I've been stupidly in love with Solomon since I first met him as a child, and I don’t think I could look at someone else that way even if I tried.”

There's a pause as Fred and George glance at each other, a conversation shared with nothing but a lift of brows before they look back at Godric, slightly more thoughtful now.

Godric gives them both a smile, checks that no one is close enough to overhear—and, more importantly, that Rowena and Salazar haven’t appeared yet—and then adds, “If you believe nothing else, believe that I would never harm Harry. I hardly would have cleared his godfather’s name if I was out to hurt him.”

The twins blink in unison, and Godric watches as comprehension dawns. Another shared glance, and George slowly sinks back in his seat, eyeing Godric warily.

“The Heir of Gryffindor?” he says, not quite skeptically. “That’s—”

“—a rather large secret to give away, mate,” Fred finishes for him.

“You care about Harry,” Godric says simply. “I don’t want you to worry when there's very little I would not do to keep him out of Voldemort’s hands. I swear it on my name, and my ancestor’s, and on my very magic if that will set your minds at ease.”

The only sign of a flinch at the name is the faint grimace George gives, but they share another look for a long moment before Fred looks straight at Godric and says, “And if we ask you to prove it?”

Godric hums. “Harry knows who I am. Or you could wait a few days until Voldemort does something stupid and I go to stop him, because I most certainly will.”

There's a long moment of silence, and then George laughs, sudden but full of honest humor. “Well,” he says, grinning, “this certainly isn’t how I expected you to counter our accusations, Griffiths.”

Fred snorts, but he turns away to grab a platter of toast and tug it closer. “That’s for certain. We know several people you're going to drive right ‘round the twist if you keep this up.”

“Keep it up?” Godric grins back at them, can see the amusement they're mostly hiding, can see it grow when he says, “Messieurs Weasley, I haven’t even _started_ yet.”

“I knew there was a reason we liked you,” George tells him, then pauses, and asks, testing, “Umbridge?”

“Out on her arse as soon as I can manage,” Godric replies, giving them his most innocent smile.

George laughs. “Well, _there's_ a spot of good news,” he says cheerfully, and meets Godric’s eyes again. “Look, Griffiths. Even if you are Gryffindor’s Heir, Harry is—”

“—family,” Fred finishes firmly, equally unwavering. “We’re on his side, and if that’s yours for now, we’re fine with that, and we’ll keep your secret. But—”

“—it will always be him we’re in this for,” George adds. “Not you. Nothing personal, mate.”

Godric smiles at both of them, and can't quite stop it from coming out fond, just faintly satisfied. They’ve got a Hufflepuff streak to them, that’s for certain, and it’s a reminder of just how vicious Helga’s House can be when pushed. “None taken, I assure you. Though I'm not entirely sure what Harry did to land himself with the likes of you.”

 _It’s good that Harry has people like you he can turn to_ , Godric doesn’t say.

George grins, bright and wicked. “Something even more splendid than normal, I'm sure,” he protests.

“Something _fantastical_ ,” Fred agrees, lifting his nose in the air.

“Like killing a Dark Lord, perhaps, Forge?”

“That might do it, Gred.”

“Or being willing to make friends with Ron, the selfless git.”

“That part makes him a _saint_ , I’d say.”

“Ickle Ronnikins with dirt on his nose—”

“—and a murderous rat—”

“And brothers like you,” Godric finishes cheerfully, and when they round on him with offended protestations of absolute innocence, dragging him into a headlock, he gives in and laughs until his sides ache.

It makes him think of Falcon Company, just a little, because those memories are too close to the surface, too immediate after his encounter with Winnifred’s image. But—

This is the joy of having them, not the pain of losing them, and Godric has long since learned to focus on the former to the exclusion of the latter.


	17. XVII

Draco is absolutely, one hundred percent convinced that there's something going on between Potter and the new Gryffindor boy.

Vincent and Greg don’t see it, but that’s probably to be expected, and Draco isn’t entirely sure why he was asking them to begin with. Theo rolls his eyes and mutters something about green not being his color—ridiculous, he’s a Malfoy, _every_ color suits him—and Blaise listens patiently for almost half an hour before he looks Draco dead in the eye and says, “Just kiss him and stake a claim already. Watching you pine is tedious.”

Clearly, _clearly_ Draco needs better friends.

The memory of Silvius’s words the other morning is still a little too clear for comfort, so after Blaise proves himself a _filthy traitor_ Draco doesn’t even bother to bring the matter up with him. The other boy is a bit intimidating, too, though Draco would rather choke on his own tongue than admit it to anyone but himself, and even then only in the deepest parts of his thoughts. Not a friend or even an ally, and Draco isn’t quite ready to call another Slytherin an enemy, not yet, but Silvius is edging closer to it.

Well, probably.

He certainly consorts with other Houses frequently enough, Draco thinks a little sourly, watching Silvius and the beautiful Ravenclaw girl sit with their heads bent together, at a table in one of the secluded corners of the library. Draco didn’t exactly come up here to lurk—he has Astronomy homework he needs to finish, and an essay to write for History—but it’s just… _strange_ , that’s all. Hogwarts doesn’t get a lot of new students, and the four who showed up this year are such a tightly-knit group already that they just stomp right through a lot of the lines that Draco had always rather thought of as walls.

Turning determinedly back to the bookshelf, he stares at the titles without quite seeing them, moody and unsure why. Well, perhaps that’s not true—he had to watch Griffiths flirt with the Weasley bookends this morning, which was nauseating enough, but then Potter had wandered into the Great Hall and Griffiths had immediately pulled him down to sit beside him. He’d slung an arm around his shoulders, and Potter had _leaned into it_ as he yawned and settled himself.

Horrific, honestly. It had entirely ruined Draco's breakfast.

It’s more than a little ridiculous, too; Draco had thought Potter had his sights set on the Ravenclaw Seeker, Chang. He certainly spent enough time mooning after her last year. And then he’d taken one of the Patil twins to the Yule Ball. _And_ there was his nervous stuttering around Diggory.

Griffiths is definitely part of a pattern, Draco thinks, still sour. If Potter breaks any more hearts all of his exes are going to have to start a bloody club.

With a huff, he snatches an armful of books off the shelf at random, then turns on his heel and pointedly stalks away from Silvius, sweeping around the corner of the shelf, and—

Collides with the body that’s already standing there. Not a near miss, but an actual bone-rattling slam, knocking him off his feet as he rebounds and sending books flying. He yelps, arms pinwheeling, and a hand snatches the front of his robes, hauling him back upright. Draco staggers a step, gets his balance back, and glances up, a cutting remark on the tip of his tongue.

Of course it’s bloody Griffiths. _Of course_. And _he_ didn’t go flying when they ran into each other—he looks perfectly steady, even, with only a hand on the bookshelf beside them to show that anything happened at all.

“Other people _walk here_ , Griffiths,” he spits. “Or do you enjoy standing in the middle of the path like an ugly statue?”

Red brows arch, but instead of getting angry like Potter would, there's something like a grin curling at the corner of Griffiths’s mouth. “Sorry,” he says, and Draco can't actually tell if it’s sincere or not. “In my defense, though, most people don’t come around the corner like they’re in the middle of a race.”

Draco bristles. “I'm _busy_ ,” he retorts. “Though I suppose a Gryffindor wouldn’t know what that’s like.”

There's a pause, strangely weighty as Griffiths stares at him. Something prickles down the back of Draco's neck, sharp and uncomfortable, and he has to resist the suddenly very strong urge to take a step back. All too easy, in that moment, to remember Griffiths’s cheerful threat on the train, the absolute willingness to do violence that filled his eyes. Some of his father’s friends are like that, and it’s always unnerved Draco, no matter how he tries to hide it. Griffiths feels less…unhinged, maybe, but it’s still uncomfortable.

He has green eyes, too, which Draco has never noticed before. Not Potter’s color, a dark bottle green, but several shades lighter, almost catlike. It’s unsettling, especially given the way his gaze isn’t wavering, and Draco wants to force him to look away, to back down, but at the same time he almost doesn’t dare.

He’s almost worked up the courage to demand what Griffiths is looking at, hopefully with an insult tacked on, when Griffiths blinks. It’s a far greater relief than it should be, right up until he says, quiet but sincere, “I heard of your family’s troubles. My condolences.”

“ _Condolences_?” Draco will never admit the way his voice cracks, but for a moment the only thing in his mind is his mother’s face when she came to see him, pale and shaken. There are charges against his father, the Ministry’s Aurors have possession of practically every Dark artifact in Manor, and Draco has no earthly idea whether his father will manage to escape a sentence in Azkaban. Draco has always _known_ that they had Dark artifacts, forbidden books, but—

The Malfoys are an old family. Those things are _history_ , and Draco has heard more than one of his father’s diatribes against fools who would shut such things away from the world, never to be seen again. It makes sense, it does, but—

Draco would rather have a father out of Azkaban, even if it means not knowing parts of his family’s history. It’s a sharp, bitter, unhappy thought, and to have it while this complete stranger, this _Gryffindor_ offers his _condolences_ —

“My family’s _troubles_ are none of your concern, so keep your nose out of our business,” he spits. “You needn’t pretend that you're doing anything but dancing in glee, Griffiths—”

There's suddenly a hand planted in the center of his chest, shoving him back, and Draco is so thoroughly caught off guard that he allows himself to be moved, staggering back as Potter appears between them. He looks _furious_ , color high in his cheeks and eyes hot with anger behind his glasses, and Draco is startled in spite of himself. Potter has spent so much of the last few year being quiet and brooding that it’s gotten hard to remember just how much of a temper he has.

“Leave him alone, Malfoy!” he snaps, and he hasn’t gone for his wand yet but he looks like he wants to. “He was just being nice, not that that’s something you're familiar with, is it?”

For a handful of seconds, Draco is too busy gaping to formulate a response, and before he can Griffiths snorts quietly and puts a hand on Potter’s shoulder, pulling him back a step. “Easy, Harry,” he says, sounding amused. “I'm not offended.”

“You _should_ be,” Potter retorts, but he’s already easing back, apparently soothed by Griffiths’s nearness. It’s _appalling_.

“No, I shouldn’t,” Griffiths corrects, and they're now ignoring Draco entirely, which is inexcusable. “I remarked on a sensitive issue when it wasn’t welcome, that’s all.”

Potter doesn’t look appeased, but before he can belabor the point Draco levels them both with his haughtiest glare and demands, “What are you even _doing_ here?”

With a glare that’s just as fierce, Potter jerks back around to face him. “I don’t know, Malfoy,” he retorts, scathing. “It’s a library, isn’t it? Obviously I came here to practice my Quidditch.”

Draco would splutter if he had an ounce less class. As it is, he puffs up, and it’s not quite as easy to face Potter down without Vince and Greg at his back, but—

“We’re working on the History of Magic essay,” Griffiths says breezily, like he can't even feel the tension. He uses the grip he still has on Potter’s shoulder to tug him back again, taking a step to the side, and then crouches down, picking up Draco's dropped books. One glance at the titles makes him smile, and he rises easily, strangely graceful. “The same one you're working on, apparently. How about we work together, then?”

Draco gapes at him, and only feels slightly mollified by the fact that Potter looks exactly as astonished and offended as he feels. “ _What_? I'm not going to—to help you with your essay, you—”

“Like we need the help!” Potter protests, giving Griffiths a disbelieving look. “Go—Gideon is smarter than all of Slytherin combined.”

The Granger girl would spontaneously _combust_ if she could hear him say that, Draco thinks, but the amusement of that image isn’t enough to muffle the outrage as he rounds on Potter. “And I suppose that’s why he has to help you? Since you couldn’t reason your way out of a _sack_.”

“And who survived the Triwizard Tournament?” Potter asks, unimpressed. “You cried when a hippogriff looked at you wrong.”

“That beast _mutilated me_!”

“The only thing mutilated was your ego, Malfoy!”

“ _Enough_ , both of you.” Griffiths sounds entirely exasperated as he grabs them both by the nape of the neck, spins them around, and marches them through the shelves towards one of the tables in the back. There are already schoolbags on the empty chairs, and books spread out across the table itself. “Madame Pince is going to chuck all three of us out if you don’t lower your voices just a touch. And I don’t know about you, but I have better things to do at night than finish an essay on centaur politics in the eighteenth century.”

“Like Potter?” Draco mutters, but he catches a glimpse of Madam Pince through the shelves, watching them with the narrow intensity of a hawk circling its next meal, and decides not to make a scene. He does shake off Griffiths’s hand, though, because he has an image to maintain.

It’s a little satisfying to watch Potter turn crimson and splutter furiously, apparently unable to get a single word out.

Sadly, before Potter can do actual damage to himself, Griffiths laughs, throwing himself down into one of the empty chairs. It should be awkward and gangly, because even _Blaise_ is awkward and gangly right now, but instead Griffiths somehow manages to make that graceful as well. The slant of his expression is as catlike as Theo’s manages to be at his most cunning, but it doesn’t have the sharp edges Draco is used to—Griffiths is just amused, content, and not afraid to show it.

“I think Sal would object,” he says, grinning, and tilts his head in the direction of Silvius and the Ravenclaw girl. “He’s the opinionated sort, you know? Especially about monogamy. Not that I _mind_.”

Draco's brain shorts out, and he almost trips over his own feet. _Silvius_? And the _generic Weasley_? That is—that’s—

—Not as unbelievable as Draco would like, given the few interactions he’s managed to observe. They walk close together, and they always _look_ at each other, even when the other is looking away.

Potter snorts, because clearly he already knew about this, and takes the seat on Griffiths’s left. “Don’t tell me you look down on that, too, Malfoy,” he says, and there's an edge of bitterness to it that’s almost surprising.

Draco frowns, looking from Potter to Griffiths and back again. “On what?” he demands testily, not about to be maligned for something he hasn’t actually _done_.

“Two men together?” Potter challenges. “Does that offend you the same way Hermione does?”

 _What_? Draco blinks at him, entirely bewildered, and tries to understand why this would be an issue at all. He opens his mouth, realizes he can't think of anything to say, closes it again, and tries to come up with something like a response.

Griffiths clearly decides to take pity on him. With a sound of amusement, he flips open one of the books next to him, and says, “That’s an issue for the Muggle world, Harry. The wizarding world’s never put much stock in limiting how people love, thankfully.”

Surprise and then something like relief flickers over Potter’s face, but Draco is still stalled on the _limiting how people love_ part. “What?” he demands. “Muggles _do that_?”

“Not the good ones,” Potter immediately defends. He scowls at Draco, and adds pointedly, “Like good people in the wizarding world don’t go around calling other people _Mudbloods_.”

“It’s not the same thing!” Draco spits. “Impure blood—”

“Doesn’t actually matter a whit, which should be obvious,” Griffiths cuts in, and the roll of his eyes is obvious even if he doesn’t lift them from where his quill is scratching out offensively neat letters on his parchment. “Especially given how Granger likely has the best grades in the school.”

Draco scowls at him, because that’s always been a point his father goes on about, and Draco is tired of hearing it. “She’s— _Granger_ ,” he manages, and it’s not a good defense, but he doesn’t _have_ one. “That doesn’t—”

“I beat Voldemort in a duel,” Potter says, before Draco can finish, and when Draco flinches and looks at him, his eyes are fierce, expression set. “Last year, after the Third Task. And I beat him in Second Year, too. And in First Year. And even if I hadn’t, his father was a _Muggle_ , Malfoy! Whatever you want to think blood purity means, it _doesn’t_!”

With a jerk, Potter shoves to his feet, grabs his bag, and stalks away from the table. Draco watches him go, not quite able to shut his mouth even if his mother’s always told him gaping is unattractive. He doesn’t think she would blame him—the Dark Lord is a _half-blood_? If anyone would know, it’s likely Potter, but—

There's a quiet sigh, and then Griffiths rises from his seat, carding a hand through his fiery hair to push it back from his face. “Apparently we will be working on that essay tonight,” he says, though he sounds closer to amused than put out. A pause, and then he closes two of the books and sets them in front of Draco. “Here, I think these are what you need. Chapter twelve and chapter fifteen. And maybe…”

Draco manages to gather enough sense to look up at him, just in time to see him raise his wand. A handful of seconds later, a slim, green-bound book comes soaring out of the shelves and drops neatly on top of the other volumes, then flips itself open to the title page.

 _An Argument for Impurity_ , Draco reads, and manages to muster a sneer. “If you think you're going to push some Mudblood _propaganda_ on me—” he starts.

“Malfoy.”

One look at Griffiths’s face and the words stick in Draco's throat. He swallows hard, but can't quite force himself to look away from green eyes gone as hard as stone, the dangerous set of Griffiths’ mouth. Griffiths leans over him, planting a hand on the table, and it almost feels as if the lights around them are flickering, guttering, even though Draco knows that can't be true. The Gryffindor smiles, but there's only the barest thread of humor in it, and far more carefully maintained patience that’s somehow more threatening than a wand in his face would be.

“Read the book,” Griffiths says, almost gently. “It’s better to know what you're arguing against regardless, isn’t it? Read it and then you can tell me all the ways it’s wrong.”

A hand touches Draco's shoulder, glancing contact that feels like it’s meant to reassure, and then Griffiths is gone as well, heading towards the door with long strides. Halfway there, a familiar figure slips out of the rows to fall into step with him, and Silvius casts one brief look back at Draco, brows rising, and then looks away, catching Griffiths’s elbow. The Gryffindor turns to face him, and Silvius says something Draco is too far away to catch. It makes Griffiths smile a little, though, and he nods, then turns and keeps walking, Silvius at his side.

Draco swallows, glancing back down at the pile of books in front of him. The green book is just lying there, like it isn’t the mortal enemy of every text and tome Draco has ever encountered on the superiority of wizards and those of purely wizarding stock. Draco has never for a moment believed that there could be any other explanation, any other truth, but—

 _His father was a_ Muggle _, Malfoy! Whatever you want to think blood purity means, it_ doesn’t _!_

The Dark Lord, the greatest wizard in _generations_ , who built his entire war on the idea that Muggles were a plague on society and would destroy the wizarding world, is _descended_ from them. He’s a half-blood, just like Potter.

Draco reaches out, wary like the book is going to leap up and bite him, and carefully flips it closed with the tip of one finger. For a moment, he debates leaving it on the table and just walking away, but some impulse stops him before he can. Instead, he sweeps it into his bag before anyone else can see it, and tells himself that he’s just going to flush it down the first toilet he comes across.

(He doesn’t, but shoves it under his pillow instead, to maybe glance over briefly the next time he’s alone in the dorm. It can't hurt to have all his counterarguments lined up, after all.)

 

 

“Stretching young minds?” Salazar asks, vaguely amused, as they leave the library. “If you pull at them too much they're liable to break.”

Godric rolls his eyes at the man, tucking his hands into the pockets of his robe. “I haven’t been out of teaching so long that I can't tell when to stop pushing,” he retorts, though the words are mild enough. They’ve always had different styles in the classroom, for all that teaching is probably the one love all four of them share equally. “Besides, some minds could do with a bit of elasticity.”

Salazar tips his head, conceding that, and there's a smile tugging at his mouth. “Clearly subtlety is wasted on him, so perhaps just this once you’ll have more luck than I would.”

With a huff that pretends at offense, Godric leans over, elbowing Salazar lightly. “Arrogant bastard,” he says, more fondly than he intends to.

The shadow of a smile slides into something slightly fuller, more real. Salazar looks away, rather than at him, but Godric can feel the brush of their shoulders as they round the corner, heading towards the staircase that will take them up. He doesn’t move away, even though all the revelations that have come in the past few days have hardly banked his anger. The sheer lack of _faith_ in both Helga and himself is jarring, coming from the two people who have always been closest to them, but—

But Godric’s universe has a constant, and that is and always has been Salazar, regardless of fights and squabbles and resentment. Nothing there has changed, and it never will.

Salazar glances at him briefly as they wait for the stairs to shift back to the eastern wing, and it’s surprisingly steady when Godric has gotten used to pointed dismissal. Softer, maybe, and Godric looks back, a little startled, raising a brow in question.

That faint tilt to Salazar’s lips doesn’t go away, deepens if anything, and he turns forward, heading up the staircase with quick steps. “I've heard Malfoy Senior is facing a year in Azkaban for his possession of Dark objects. Or more, if his lawyer has an off day. With the removal of his influence, I believe the boy could end up coming to several realizations.”

It’s like a warm flicker of nostalgia, to see that determined optimism in Salazar’s face, and Godric smiles a little, almost despite himself. Salazar has always had such _faith_ in people, from the very first time Godric met him. The belief that they can be better, that they can rise above their circumstances, and it’s the reason Godric didn’t die a thousand years ago, a sellsword murdered on a forgotten battlefield for nothing but a few coins. Salazar was the one to save him from that fate, to show him that he could be more than just a mercenary bastard, and even if Godric didn’t know a single solitary thing about Salazar beyond that, it would be reason enough to love him.

“A project for the winter,” he says lightly, grinning, and catches the roll of Salazar’s eyes that is anything but a denial. He himself is slightly more skeptical—Draco has just as much of a chance to fall to resentment and join Voldemort on his own, in the name of avenging his father—but he already knows that Salazar won't accept that as an outcome. He’s never truly believed that there are wizards who can't be saved, once they show that spark of potential.

Salazar gives him a look, dodging a trio of Hufflepuffs as they make for the shortcut to the sixth floor. “Don’t take that tone with _me_. Not when I've seen you with the Potter boy.”

“A friend,” Godric denies, though he’s fighting a grin. “Certainly not a _project_.”

“Seeing as he is very much like you already, I'm willing to believe that.” When Godric blinks, Salazar smiles a little and shakes his head. “You may have waited a few years beyond the age of eleven to defeat your first power-mad warmonger, but had the opportunity presented itself before then, I don’t believe you would have hesitated.”

Godric doesn’t quite agree. He hadn’t allowed himself to care, before he met Salazar, and even after it hadn’t been his first instinct. Not unless Hogwarts or those he loved were in the direct line of fire.

But then, Salazar has always seen him as better than he actually is, and it’s just another reason to love him.

“Do you know what Rowena wants to meet about?” he asks, rather than belaboring the point. Salazar never quite understands Godric’s devotion, and Godric has long since stopped trying to explain.

Salazar glances up the hall, making sure it’s clear, and then swings open a door pretending to be a section of wall. It squeaks indignantly until Godric pats it in thanks, and then it subsides with a huff and allows them to pull it shut behind them. Salazar checks that it’s sealed, then takes the three steps up and ducks out into the sixth floor landing of the staircase.

“It was Helga who wanted to meet, actually,” Salazar says, and Godric tilts his head, a little surprised.

“She was looking particularly smug at breakfast,” he offers thoughtfully. “I wonder what problem she solved.” He leaps lightly off the edge of the staircase as it starts to shift, and catches Salazar by the elbow as the man jumps a second later, landing unsteadily on the very edge of the seventh floor hall.

Rather than brushing him off, as he would if he were in a temper, Salazar touches the hand on his arm, ghosting a caress over Godric’s knuckles. He doesn’t step away, but turns to meet Godric’s eyes, and there's something that’s equal parts regret and relief in his gaze. “I suppose we’ll find out in a moment,” he says, but his voice is soft, and the words are almost absent.

Godric swallows, can't make himself pull away. It’s like the moment in the tunnel all over again, and he can feel the heat of Salazar’s body, the brush of long hair across his wrist as Salazar leans in. A hand cups his elbow, and he steps closer despite himself, lets his right hand fall to rest naturally at Salazar’s waist.

“Salazar?” he asks quietly, because this isn’t the reaction Salazar had just a day ago.

Salazar smiles, bittersweet and rueful, and folds forward. Godric takes a step back, startled by the sudden weight, and runs up against the wall as Salazar leans into him, head falling to rest on Godric’s shoulder. There's a muffled sound, full of frustration and well-worn pain, and Salazar says, so quiet it’s barely a breath, “The years have been…very long, Godric.”

One thing to believe that Salazar had missed him, just going by Salazar’s actions. Another thing entirely to hear it, said nearly straight out like that. Godric’s breath catches in his throat, and he brings his arms up, wrapping them tightly around Salazar’s shoulders as he buries his face in dark hair. Ink and ozone, the smell of him, and that at least is the same as it’s ever been. Salazar smells like learning and magic, and the comfort of it is beyond anything else. Godric breathes him in, simply holding him, and there's nothing in all the world that could make him push Salazar away, not even the hurt of the past fifty years.

“Too long,” Godric agrees, and it’s not pointed even though it should be. The anger is harder to grasp right now, and Godric is glad of it. Salazar rarely seeks comfort, and to do it like this, out in the open, in a way that can't possibly be misinterpreted—

He must need it very badly indeed, and Godric loves him too much to say no.

There's a sound of amused agreement, and Salazar lifts his head. A hand comes up, ghosting across Godric’s cheek and sliding into his hair, and Salazar tips his head up, takes his mouth in a fierce, slow kiss. It’s single-minded in its intensity, and that alone would be enough to steal Godric’s breath even without the heat of Salazar’s mouth, the nearly desperate clutch of his fingers.  Godric is pinned, pressed up against the wall, but he isn’t planning to go anywhere. He shifts back, lets the wall take his weight as he hauls Salazar closer, right between his legs, and Salazar gasps into his mouth, presses in and kisses him harder.

The hand in his hair tightens, and Salazar pulls back, leans away just enough to look at him, and his free hand comes up, cups Godric’s cheek as he smooths a thumb along his cheekbone. There's something in his eyes that Godric can't read, too tangled to be just one emotion, but his smile is rueful and fond.

“I could run to the ends of the earth and not escape you, Godric,” he says, and the words are too heavy to be a joke.

“Why would you want to,” Godric answers, and that’s not a joke either, though he tries to make it one. Fifty years is a long time to think himself unwanted, rejected. To learn now that Salazar had said those words, done those things, out of some misguided desire to protect him—that doesn’t ease the hurt. All the reasons in existence won't undo the ache Godric felt for half a century, which drove him across the world, never lingering, never settling, because the people he would have called his home were fractured, scattered.

He loves Salazar, but the hurt is still there.  

Salazar hesitates, watching him carefully. For a moment Godric almost thinks he’s going to offer an excuse, or perhaps even an apology, but even as he opens his mouth there's a series of sharp, quick steps, and he snaps it shut just as McGonagall turns the corner.

“Mister Griffiths, Mister Silvius,” she says reprovingly. “I appreciate a display of inter-House unity as much as anyone, but this is not the place for it.”

Despite the flicker of annoyance at being interrupted, Godric can't fight a laugh. He detangles himself from Salazar, slipping out of the way as Salazar steps back, and offers the professor a cheeky smile. “Sorry, Professor. My school spirit got the better of me.”

She arches one unimpressed brow at him. “Propriety, Mister Griffiths. I won't hesitate to take points from my own House should you happen to forget it.” With a brisk nod, she strides past them, disappearing down the hall, and Godric laughs a little, turning back to Salazar.

“I think that’s our reminder,” he says. “To the room? Helga’s likely waiting.”

“Better we keep Helga waiting than Rowena,” Salazar mutters, but he falls into step with Godric as they head down the hall. Three passes in front of the wall brings the door shimmering into view, and Godric can't help but laugh—this time it’s a round green with a golden knob in the exact center, and there's very little chance that Salazar or Rowena would get the joke, given their avoidance of the Muggle world.

He throws the door open, ducking through, and the interior is the same as when they were planning their capture of Pettigrew, but he grins at Helga as he throws himself into the chair to her right and says cheerfully, “You’d make a splendid hobbit, bright eyes.”

Helga grins back at him, all merry mischief. “I rather thought so too,” she confesses. “But only if I have a brave gardener to help me out of peril.

Godric bows as best he can while sitting. “At your service, of course.”

“What _are_ you two talking about?” Salazar demands, faintly peeved, as he settles on Godric’s free side.

“A Muggle fairy tale,” Helga says, and just smiles when Salazar rolls his eyes. “Well, I for one very much enjoyed it. Did you pass Rowena on your way in?”

“She probably got distracted,” Godric offers, because Rowena is either precisely on time or four hours late, and there's rarely any in-between. He flicks his fingers, then catches the piece of paper that falls out of the air. It’s simple enough to fold it into a bird and animate it with a breath—Rowena knows this spell in particular is one she invented and he favors, so he doesn’t even need words.

Helga smiles fondly at the bird as it sweeps away, vanishing into one of the corners of the room and out through the wall. “She was working on something at breakfast, too. I hope she remembered to eat.”

“Rowena is perfectly capable of taking care of herself,” Salazar says, faintly dry.

With a roll of her eyes, Helga huffs. “I know she _can_ , but we’re her friends. That means she doesn’t have to,” she says almost tartly. Catching Godric’s raised eyebrow, she gives him an exasperated look that clearly conveys _well clearly subtlety isn’t working, maybe this will_.

Godric lets his skepticism show on his face.

Helga’s expression pulls into something resembling a pout, and she leans back in her chair, pulling her legs up to cross them underneath her. “Anything from the spell yet?” she asks, rather than continuing to insist. Godric loves that about her.

“Not as such,” Godric says. He concentrates for a moment, focusing on the warding stones he laid, and then passes a hand through the air, calling up an image of the ward. It stretches from one coast to the other, bright sparks of light showing people bearing the same mark as the elder Malfoy. “I managed to track the Dark Marks to the other Death Eaters, but not to Voldemort yet. At this point, he’s going to have to make a move before we can confront him.”

Salazar casts one glance from Helga to Godric, curious, and then shakes his head and focuses on the map. He frowns, long fingers tapping the table, and leans back in his chair with a thoughtful sound. “The followers are a good start. He hasn’t called them all to the same place yet?”

Godric shakes his head. “He may have called Malfoy after we attacked the Manor, but the Mark must be divorced from his magic once it’s cast. I can track the charm, but not Voldemort himself. And he’s been clever enough not to call a full meeting.”

Rather surprisingly, Salazar doesn’t pick at their choice to confront Malfoy, doesn’t make pointed comments about haste and rushing into things. He just tips his head, considering, and narrows his eyes faintly. “Perhaps…going after the Death Eaters will unnerve him enough that he makes his move. I assume you know who is in Voldemort’s inner circle?”

Godric can feel his brows rising, and when he glances over at Helga she’s wearing a similar expression of surprise. “Salazar?” she asks.

Salazar blinks, pulling his gaze from the map. “We have yet to make contact with the Order of the Phoenix,” he points out. “If nothing else, clearly allying ourselves with the force that opposed Voldemort last time will show where we stand. It might even make him angry. And an angry man is a sloppy one.”

It takes effort for Godric to hide the wryness in his expression, but he looks away, keeps Salazar from seeing his rueful smile. Too many people, he thinks, underestimate anger as a driving force. It’s one of the best, as long as you channel it, and Godric’s been doing that for most of his life. He doesn’t like to think of himself as an angry man, but—

There are moments when he can't call himself anything else.

Still. Still, Voldemort has _proved_ that anger makes him sloppy; his encounter in the graveyard, with Harry, was nothing less. Salazar’s right in saying they can use that.

“So we take another Death Eater, find proof of what they’ve done, and leave them in the Ministry?” he asks, and offers Salazar his most charming grin. “Well, well, Salazar, seeing things my way now, are we?”

Salazar rolls his eyes at him, but the slant of his mouth is fond. “ _Occasionally_ a straightforward assault on the enemy’s defenses is in order,” he allows. “But nowhere near as frequently as you seem to think, Godric.”

Godric pulls a face at him, but really, that’s more of an allowance than Salazar would normally make, so he’s willing to count it as a win. He grins, watches Salazar’s storm-cloud eyes flicker down to his mouth, and tries to keep his breath from catching. Helga will notice—she’s good with things like that—and Godric isn’t ready to call this forgiveness just yet, isn’t ready to put a name to what he’s feeling, or how he and Salazar interact. Nothing beyond what’s always been there, and will likely someday be again.

At that moment, the door swings open, and an instant later Rowena duck through, looking faintly harried. She shuts the door hard behind her, then turns and levels a glare at it like it’s done her wrong.

“That miserable excuse for a teacher tried to _follow me_ ,” she says indignantly, turning and sweeping over to the table. “In _our castle_. The _nerve_.”

“Binns?” Godric asks, casting a wary look at the door.

“Snape,” Rowena corrects crisply, pulling her hair out of her face and twisting it up into a messy knot. “I noticed him as I was leaving the library, and he trailed me all the way to the Great Hall under a Notice-Me-Not charm. I lost him in the crowd, I believe, but we should be careful.”

“It’s not as we didn’t know Snape is a Death Eater,” Helga points out, though her expression has gone tight and unhappy. “He was hiding Pettigrew, after all. But if he’s suspicious of us, he could tell Voldemort.”

“We’ll have to move more quickly than we intended,” Rowena agrees, then catches Helga’s hand and offers her a faintly weary smile. “Helga? Can I ask what this is about?”

The worry slides away, and Helga beams. “I unraveled the curse,” she says, and Godric is sitting at just the right angle to see Salazar blanch and go pale, Rowena freeze. “On the bad luck charm in the Defense professor’s quarters. There was a layer to it that amplified negative emotions and used people’s fears against each other when it was triggered. We should be able to turn it against Umbridge without getting hit by that part now.”

Godric goes still, feels Rowena’s eyes snap to him and can't help but meet her gaze, helpless to do anything but remember their argument yesterday, the way they almost came to blows. He’d thought it was his own lack of control, but—

“A spell?” he manages. “That was because of a spell?”

Helga’s smile is sympathetic. “It was, but I unraveled it. It couldn’t work on me when I was alone.”

More likely it tried, and Helga walked right through the darker emotions it raised with a smile and a goal. Godric smiles back, touching the hand Rowena isn’t clinging to, and says, “As amazing as ever, bright eyes.”

“Well, you’re going to have to finish the job, fire-top,” she reminds him, though she catches his fingers and squeezes them gently in thanks. “I only managed the first part.”

“That’s still more than Godric and I together were able to accomplish,” Rowena says, and she leans in, kisses Helga on the cheek. “Godric’s correct, my love. You're a marvel.”

“Indeed.” Salazar offers Helga a pleased nod, and settles back in his chair again. “That’s one problem dealt with, then. Umbridge gone will allow us to focus on Voldemort.”

Rowena snorts. “As long as they assign a decent teacher,” she huffs, but doesn’t otherwise argue.

It sparks a thought, something Godric considered briefly before he was distracted with other matters. “Remus Lupin,” he says, remembering the faintly worn, scarred man who had been standing with Harry and his godfather yesterday. “I’ve heard he was the best teacher in the last few years, and he’s currently without a job.”

Rowena’s eyes narrow, which says she knows exactly who he’s talking about. “Wasn’t he a werewolf?”

“And a good teacher,” Godric counters. “He actually covered all the curriculum he was supposed to.”

For a moment Rowena hesitates, but she concedes the argument with a tip of her head. “Acceptable, in that case, as long as he has a supply of Wolfsbane Potion,” she says, and taps her long red nails against the wood. “I still have a handful of connections at the Ministry, and that one law firm in Diagon Alley. I’ll see what I can do to get an argument made that the potion should be covered by the school.”

“And I’ll make sure his name comes up as the only acceptable option,” Godric agrees, flipping his wand through his fingers. When Salazar gives him a look, he returns it with his most innocent expression. “Hogwarts is an old, mysterious creature. Her whims are wholly unpredictable. If the board members just happen to think she has an opinion that corresponds with ours…”

Salazar snorts, but doesn’t object. “And that leaves us with the decision of which Death Eater we take next.”

Rowena hums thoughtfully, leaning in to study the map, and taps a finger against a dot of light in one corner. “This area. It’s isolated, far from any towns or settlements. If we don’t want to be seen quite yet, that’s our best bet.”

“Or,” Helga says slowly, “we’re looking at this wrong. Pettigrew’s capture was a sign that old injustices wouldn’t stand, and our visit to Malfoy Manor shows that we know who Voldemort’s followers are. What if we just…mark them? They already mark themselves, don’t they? Some kind of sign, like a reverse Dark Mark, would let other people know what they do.”

“Unmasking them,” Salazar agrees. “It’s simple, but certainly will have an effect. And it’s safer for us, in case we can't find solid evidence of their identities. We even have a symbol already, given Godric’s flamboyancy at the Ministry and at the Manor.”

Godric blinks, eyeing Salazar curiously, and the other man makes an impatient gesture. Before he can answer, though, Rowena laughs.

“A sword,” she says with wicked delight. “A red sword, hanging above them, ready to fall. We can carve it into their homes, or set it above their gates. It’s perfect. Make it clear the Heir of Gryffindor is coming for them and they’ll reveal themselves in their fear.”

With a snort, Godric leans back, stretching his legs out. “Well,” he says easily. “Apparently I'm not getting that History essay done tonight, either. But if we’re going for something showy…” He snaps his fingers, and a different dot of light brightens, coming into focus. “This one has a house a short distance from Diagon Alley. Lots of people passing by at all hours, I believe.”

“Not a far trip at all,” Helga agrees, smiling, though her gaze is steady. “At dusk, do you think?”

“Very dramatic,” Rowena approves, and kicks Godric’s ankle lightly under the table. When he glares at her, more amused then offended, she smirks back, and offers, “I could use some fresh air. Shall we, Godric?”

“Just the two of us?” Godric grins at her. “They’ll never know what hit them.”


	18. XVIII

“Hm.” Rowena eyes Godric critically, tapping the handle of her wand against her lips. It’s a habit Godric has never been able to break her of, regardless of how it makes him twitch. His cousin Alaric was _deeply_ devoted to the idea of wand safety, and Godric heard more than enough lectures on the subject for the matter to stick, even a thousand years later.

Because trying to correct Rowena’s habits is an exercise in frustration, Godric doesn’t bother snapping at her for it, just crosses his arms over his chest and glares at her from under his hood. “Rowena. This is an attack on a Dark wizard, not Paris Fashion Week.”

Rowena rolls her eyes at him, though she at least flips her wand around to hold it normally. “Yes, yes. It’s just a shame your hair isn’t longer. A red braid against the black would be striking, and a little more association with the color red certainly never hurt you.”

“I _had_ long hair,” Godric retorts, and debates taking a step out of range, more to make a point than anything. “A nesting Chinese Fireball burned it off, if you recall. And keep your charms away from my scalp, Ravenclaw. I haven’t forgotten what happened in Moscow.”

Huffing in offence, Rowena slides her wand up the sleeve of her robe, gives him one last displeased once-over, and says, “Well, I suppose it will have to do. You look like a Curse Breaker from the eighteen hundreds, but that _is_ rather dramatic enough to suit our purposes.”

“Well, you look like a librarian,” Godric retorts. It’s not entirely true; Rowena is easily the most breathtakingly beautiful woman Godric’s ever laid eyes on, and putting her hair in a bun and donning a pair of wire-framed spectacles hardly changes that. It should be enough to pass through Diagon Alley without too much attention, though, especially since Godric will be walking separately and they're both aged up to their adult bodies again.

“There are far worse things to look like,” Rowena tells him, acidly sweet, but then she frowns a little. “You're sure you don’t want a disguise? At least until we’ve found the house? If someone notices—”

She’s worried, and it’s entirely understandable. This is easily the most noticeable, the most _public_ any of them have been since the very first time they agreed to stage their deaths and live in anonymity. Still, there's no helping it if they want to draw Voldemort out, and Godric offers her a rueful smile.

“We _want_ them to notice me,” he points out. “That’s what all of this is for. You're my backup, so I need you hidden, but—”

“You have to be the one in the spotlight,” Rowena finishes for him, and she looks anything but happy about it, but she still nods, shakes out her pointed hat, and sets it primly on top of her head, tipping it enough to shade her face. “Fine. If someone tries to stop you, I’ll hex them so hard they won't wake up until next week.”

“You are my _favorite_ backup,” Godric tells her, grinning.

Rowena tosses him a wink, because the promise of chaos always makes her spirits rise. “I should hope so,” she drawls, then takes a breath. The tunnel under Hogsmeade is as dark and cramped as ever, but she surveys it like a queen, nods once, and glances over at Godric. “I’ll be right behind you,” she promises, then turns on her heel and vanishes with a crack.

Godric smiles, can't help but shake his head. This is _far_ from the most dangerous thing they’ve ever done—the four of them have always gravitated towards struggles, largely because of the help they can provide with less scrutiny than they might be subject to elsewhere—but, Godric supposes, this is different because it’s _Hogwarts_ that’s at risk. People say that the only reason Voldemort failed to attack the school last time he rose was Dumbledore, and Godric doesn’t have faith that the same thing will hold true this time. Voldemort seems very much the type to escalate. If they don’t manage to stop him…

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, Godric puts a hand on the hilt of his sword, rubbing his thumb over the ruby in the pommel. It doesn’t matter, because they _will_ stop him. Voldemort is after Harry's head, and Godric will never let him get close enough to touch so much as a corner of the boy’s robes. Four times already Voldemort has nearly managed to kill Harry, and Harry's only gotten away through luck, bravery, and his own cunning.

There won't be a fifth time.

Godric tugs his hood down a little further, then turns on his heel, bracing himself for the awful twisting compression of Apparation. One second of disorientation and he’s stepping into the Apparition spot in Diagon Alley, another witch appearing just inches to his left. She startles a little at the sight of him, but Godric pretends not to notice, steps down into the street and heads away from the shadow of Gringotts in the sunset. A narrow side street cuts towards the magical neighborhood right behind Diagon Alley’s shops, and Godric takes it without pausing, not bothering to look around for Rowena. She knows how to blend in, and if she said she would be right behind him, Godric knows nothing on earth will stop her from being there.

The crowds are slightly thinner than usual, given the hour, but there are still plenty of people on the street. A few eye him, but this close to Knockturn Alley he’s hardly the only suspicious figure on the street, and most people are clearly on their way elsewhere. Still, Godric keeps half an eye on his surroundings as he walks, surreptitiously checking the beacon of his locating spell. It’s not the most foolproof plan, honestly—he has no idea _which_ Death Eater lives in this house, wasn’t able to check given their new time pressures—but it’s certainly showy enough, and Godric trusts himself to be able to handle anything Voldemort’s followers can throw at him.

A flash of blue robes draws his eye, and he turns his head just slightly, in time to see two men rising quickly from their outdoor table at a restaurant. One is shorter, thin in a way that speaks of starvation, with black hair tangled around his face. The other looks worn, his robes patched and his hair streaked with grey, but his eyes are sharp as they land on Godric, and he’s the first to step out into the street after him. The other man is close behind, though, and as they pass beneath a street lamp it’s easy to recognize Sirius Black and Remus Lupin, _very_ far from where Godric would expect them. He curses to himself, debates turning into one of the alleys to lose them, or maybe heading back towards Knockturn Alley, but before he can veer off Lupin catches up, falling in beside him.

“It’s a nice night for a walk, isn’t it?” he asks mildly.

Ahead of him, Godric catches sight of Rowena, watching him warily through the window of a shop. He meets her eyes for half a second, and shakes his head just slightly; there's too much risk involved in trying to hex a werewolf in the middle of an open street, and besides, this is Harry's godfather and friend. Godric isn’t about to hurt them, even accidentally.

“A nice night for a date, as well,” he returns, keeping his face away from the streetlights and his voice low. There's some small risk of Lupin and Black recognizing him, given that he met them as a student, but the differences should be enough to throw them off. “Please, don’t let me interrupt.”

From his other side, too close, Black laughs, all teeth and humor. “Sorry,” he says, not sounding it at all, “but we couldn’t help but notice that sword you're carrying. Very pretty.”

Godric doesn’t reach for his sword, doesn’t rest his hand on it. It’s mostly covered by his cloak, and they must have had the perfect angle to see just what he didn’t want them to. “Thank you,” he says lightly, and looks to where the road divides ahead of them, one street turning off towards the Death Eater's home. Since Godric isn’t about to lead them that way, he takes three long strides into the deeper shadows, then turns to face his unwelcome companions. “Are you swordsmen yourselves?”

The tension in Lupin’s body says he thinks this is a threat, and pale eyes study Godric warily. “We thought,” he says quietly, “that it might be a family heirloom.”

Clever, and more so than Godric would like. He watches them both for a long moment, debating whether to hex them and be done with it or to agree. There are definite advantages to the first, especially since it isn’t a full moon, but…

Well. Harry seems fond of his godfather, and has had only good things to say about Lupin. Godric’s willing to give them the benefit of the doubt.

“It is,” he agrees, and with their bodies blocking the view from the rest of the street he very deliberately puts a gloved hand on the hilt, letting the ruby catch what light there is. “And a very dear one, at that, so if this is some attempt at extortion, my friends—”

Lupin’s eyes widen, and he raises his hands. “No,” he exclaims. “Not at all. We’re not—”

“I wanted to thank you,” Black cuts in, before Lupin can trip over his own tongue. “For bringing in Pettigrew.”

Godric pauses, debating, and then says lightly, “Seeing as I believe whoever did that is currently wanted by the Ministry, I feel I should make it very clear I'm not who you think I am.”

Lupin makes a sound of amusement. “Just a stranger in dark robes, wearing Gryffindor’s sword and going somewhere with a purpose. The Daily Prophet’s sketch of you was quite flattering, by the way.”

Rowena passes behind them, out of their line of sight, but catches Godric’s eye. Her stare is sharp, and this time Godric doesn’t bother warning her off. He needs to get back to things, and be back at the castle when Harry gets out of his detention with Umbridge. Also, the longer Lupin and Black keep him here, the greater the chance that an Auror will pass by and notice him. They're aiming for attention, but on their own terms, and that would be rather more than is ideal.

“I would love to stay and chat—” Godric starts.

“The Order of the Phoenix is looking for you,” Black interrupts, and Godric goes still in surprise. He looks from one to the other, sees Rowena behind them is alert and listening closely, frozen with one hand close to her wand. And—well. It makes sense that Sirius Black would have been a member of the Order in the first war, and that, if other people knew he was innocent, he would be this time around as well.

He taps his fingers against the hilt of his sword, wavering, and then says, “If they're looking for my head on a pike, I assure you, we’re on the same side. There's no need for hostilities.”

Lupin and Black exchange looks, and Black grins. “We knew that already,” he says confidently. “Got a minute? Or a safe place to meet? We know someone who’d very much like to get to know you.”

Rowena gives him a subtle nod, then slips away, heading towards the Death Eater's house. Clear enough, then, and Godric truly hopes she’s willing to take the fall for this bout of improvisation, because he gets the feeling Salazar isn’t going to be happy about it at _all_.

“I can spare some time,” he tells the pair, shifting back on his heels and letting his cloak fall to cover the blade again. “Though I will have to run an errand before we meet up again. Rent a room at the Leaky Cauldron, and I’ll find you.”

“Half an hour?” Lupin asks, like he’s weighing the odds of whether Godric is going to duck out or not.

That should be more than enough time, really, Godric judges. He inclines his head, then steps away, reaching up to tug his hood down a bit further. “Half an hour,” he agrees. “Excuse me, gentlemen.” Brushing past them, he catches a flicker of light from Lupin—a very simple but unnoticeable version of a tracking spell, he thinks with amusement; the man’s quick enough that he should have been an Auror—but doesn’t react, just follows Rowena.

She’s waiting for him in a narrow alley between two houses, leaning back against the wall behind the dustbins with her arms folded over her chest. That frown is thoughtful, though, not angry, Godric judges, and steps into the circumference of her wide-range Notice-Me-Not spell, tugging his hood down.

“Now there's an unexpected opportunity,” he says with amusement, settling against the wall across from her.

Rowena hums, tipping her head, and ignores when her hat starts to slide. Sharp eyes study Godric for a moment, and she pulls out her wind and flicks it at him. A spot on his robes lights up, a thin thread of brilliance leading back out into the streets, and she raises a brow in question.

“Lupin,” Godric explains. “I thought I’d allow it, to put them at ease. There's no listening component.”

That, at least, makes her relax. “I'm glad you're still that logical, Godric,” she drawls, and re-crosses her arms, letting her wand dangle from two fingertips. “This is an opportunity we can't afford to pass up. They gave you time to get to our Death Eater?”

“Plenty,” he confirms, and grins at her. “Don’t look so tense, Ravenclaw. This is everything we wanted, isn’t it? The Order will be able to help us identify the rest of Voldemort’s followers, and they might have information on his movements. We need this.”

“I know that,” Rowena retorts waspishly, though the tension in her shoulders eases a little. “But if you go in there, you're going to have to go alone, and they’ll likely ward the room against everything under the sun. I don’t like it.”

“I'm perfectly capable of defending myself—”

“But you shouldn’t always _have to_!” Rowena snaps, then stops herself, pressing a hand over her face with a weary sound. Godric blinks at her, a little startled by the outburst, but when she raises her head her expression is…sad. It makes him think of Salazar, this morning, Salazar with his head on Godric’s shoulder and the weight of fifty years in the curve of his spine.

“You shouldn’t always have to,” Rowena repeats more quietly, holding his gaze. “Godric, we—” A glance away, and her fists tighten, hand going white-knuckled around her wand. A breath, and she says, with more determination than Godric has heard in a very long time, “We made a mistake in our choices, and I _regret it_ , so deeply. But letting you walk into a room with an unknown number of people, possibly _enemies_ —do not think that there isn’t enough care in me to worry about you in that situation.”

Godric swallows, has to force himself to look away. It’s so easy to remember the argument they had in Umbridge’s rooms, the coldness of Rowena’s face when Salazar said _we’re parting ways here_. Easy, too, to recall their swordfight in the hallway after he and Salazar argued, or their dance in the Great Hall, or the dark film of corruption covering a blue thread of magic. Rowena is _family_ , in a way not even his blood family ever managed to be. Godric would die for her, but some time over the last fifty years, he’d forgotten that the reverse is true as well.

“There has _always_ been care in you,” he says quietly, because all of Rowena’s insecurities can be worn away to this one root. “Always love, with a ferocity I've rarely seen matched. Rowena, I have _never_ doubted that.”

She smiles at him, wan but grateful, and reaches out. Godric grips her fingers, squeezing lightly, and is only a little surprised when she uses the grip to pull him to her, wrapping her arms around him. A sharp chin rests on his shoulder, and Rowena sighs, then says, “Godric, the secrets between us…”

Godric could tell her he knows. Could show her the ring, tell her Harry's story about the diary. Could upend all of the half-lies and misdirections right now. It’s incredibly tempting to have all of this done with, over and put behind them, but—

Instead he presses their temples together, hugs her tightly, and resigns himself to keeping it just a bit longer. He’s still too angry to try making peace between them, too resentful of the lack of trust. Maybe soon, but not yet.

“We should go,” he says instead. “There's still a Death Eater to unmask, hm?”

Rowena curls her fingers into his hair for a moment, then lets go, allowing him to step back. A hand rubbed over her face banishes any trace of vulnerability, and she tips her head in a firm nod. “And then a meeting with the Order of the Phoenix,” she agrees. “Where?”

“The Leaky Cauldron.” Godric gives her his best winsome smile. “They shouldn’t recognize me like this, even if I change after to avoid the Aurors. And I thought you could stay in the pub while I was upstairs, to keep an eye on things.”

Rowena laughs, ruffles his hair like he’s still thirteen. “Much appreciated,” she allows. “Off with you. Let’s get this done with.”

Godric rolls his eyes at her, but fondly, and tugs his hood up over his head before he steps back into the street. The glow from his mapping spell brightens as he walks, just visible out of the corner of his eye, and he watches it as he nears the row of neat houses, tall and narrow but in good repair. The very last one in before the corner is the marked one, and Godric stops squarely in front of it, judging the best approach. It’s a private house rather than apartments, and there's a family crest on the door, though it’s not one he’s familiar with. The Death Eater is certainly inside, given the way his spell is shining, and Godric hums thoughtfully and draws his sword and wand. The head-on approach it is, then.

A blasting spell slams into the ward on the front door with a sound like a massive bell, sending people scattering to the other side of the street with cries of alarm. Godric assesses, adjusts, hurls another spell into the ward nexus right above the threshold, then another two into the spreading fractures on either side of it. Brittle wards, old and in disrepair—clearly someone wasn’t expecting to be attacked at home and didn’t bother keeping them up, which is all good news for Godric. He smiles grimly to himself, hurls one last spell at the door, and feels the ward shatter with a ringing crack.

A moment later, the entire door vanishes in a gout of crimson light that flies right at Godric’s face. He blocks it with a shimmering Shield Charm, then steps through the whirling wisps of magic and raises his sword to block a jet of golden light. There's a snarled curse, and a man stalks down the steps. He’s thin and unpleasant-looking, his expression furious as he comes to a stop facing Godric.

“You,” he hisses. “You’d best know what you're doing. I'm a Ministry employee, and this attack will not be taken lightly.”

Godric smiles, summoning a dart of blackness that swirls around him like a mad firefly, keeping to a tight spiral as it circles him. “So this rot has even infected the Ministry’s staff?” he asks, pitching his voice to carry. “How regrettable. Tell me, how many of them know you serve the Dark Lord?”

Shock flickers over the man’s face, but it’s buried in an instant. “Lies!” he spits. “Those charges were proven false fifteen years ago—”

“I wasn’t referring to your actions fifteen years ago,” Godric tells him mildly. “I was referring to how you answered Voldemort’s call on the night he was resurrected. He activated that mark on your arm, and you went running to the graveyard in Little Hangleton like a good little dog.”

The color is slowly shading from the man’s face, but he doesn’t back down. “I don’t know why you’ve chosen to target _me_ , ” he hisses, “but this is pure conjecture. I've done nothing wrong, and I certainly wouldn’t serve You-Know-Who! The Macnairs have been loyal to the Ministry for generations!”

Macnair, then. Harry hasn’t mentioned much about him, beyond his presence at Voldemort’s resurrection, but Godric’s able to improvise. “And what a shame for you to break that streak,” he says, mockingly sympathetic even as he readies a Vanishing Charm. “Come now, there's a simple enough way to prove me a liar. Show me your left arm.”

Macnair’s face twists, and he snarls, bringing his wand up sharply. “I don’t need to prove anything to a criminal like you,” he snaps, and Godric whirls, ducking under the jet of red light that comes flying at him. A Shield Charm blocks the next blow, and he flicks a hand, the dark orb that’s been spinning around him suddenly launching itself forward like a bullet. It twists through three spells that Macnair hurls in quick succession, leaving Godric to deflect them to the side, and slams full-force into Macnair’s chest, knocking him right off his feet.

He goes down with a choked cry, wheezing for breath, and Godric straightens. Lazily, he flicks his wand, and silver ropes slide out of the tip to wind themselves around Macnair, pinning him to the ground. They bind his arms at the wrist, but go no further down, and Godric taps his wand against the man’s sleeve, vanishing it all the way up to the shoulder. There's a concealment spell underneath, and he does away with that as well even as Macnair twists and curses.

“Well, well,” he says, makes it languidly amused and more than a little mocking. “If you're not a Death Eater, I suppose this is a just a tattoo? Perhaps it’s an abstract image, or you got drunk one night? I’d take umbrage with my tattoo artist, if that’s the case. Because it certainly looks like the Dark Mark to _me_.”

“Bastard,” Macnair hisses, but Godric just laughs and rises to his feet, letting go of the man’s arm. There are several people huddled back on the other side of the street, watching from a safe distance, and Godric inclines his head to them.

“This is the third,” he calls. “The third of many! By the time I'm through, Voldemort will be nothing but a lone worm, cringing from the light. This man is a Death Eater. Watch him. Be wary. He is a snake in your midst, but once you’ve recognized him for what he is his venom loses its potency.”

Helga was the one to come up with an actual image for the mark they agreed upon, and Godric takes a moment to fix it in his mind before he flicks his wand. Red fire curls from the tip, swirling for a moment before it rises, hovering right over Macnair’s door. The flames twist together, and for half an instant they look like a lion roaring before they change again, shifting into a burning replica of Godric’s sword. It hangs point down, blade bared, above the doorway, and Godric smiles to himself. It’s blatant and entirely noticeable, but that’s rather the point; anyone who looks at it, who’s heard of this, will know precisely what it means.

Lifting his sword, Godric offers those watching a salute, then turns sharply on his heel as he ends Lupin’s tracking spell. The Hogsmeade tunnel snaps into focus, and Godric catches himself on one wall with a grimace. He _hates_ Apparating, and he’s going to have to do it at least two more times before the night is over. What joy.

Still. That’s one Death Eater identified, and the Aurors will likely be there soon to investigate the disturbance. They might be able to find evidence of Macnair’s activities, but even if they don’t, the rumors will spread. People will watch him, hopefully refrain from trusting him. He won't be able to hide any longer, and that’s more than enough for Godric.

With a simple charm, he alters his clothes, shifts the gold-trimmed black coat and red-lined cloak into a more regular winter coat, hides his sword under a simple charm. A cap is enough to hide his hair and shadow his face, and Godric makes himself slouch a little to change the cut of his figure. It’s a ludicrously simple disguise, but then, wizards often overlook such things. He looks different enough from himself at fifteen that he’s not overly worried about Lupin or Black realizing it’s him, as long as he speaks quietly and changes his speech patterns a little. They only met him briefly, after all, and like this, Godric certainly looks like a man who’s lived his years. He fingers his crooked nose for a moment, considers hiding some of the scars on his skin, but then decides to refrain from it. They only change his face more, and right now he needs that.

When he reappears on the Diagon Alley side of the leaky Cauldron, Rowena is already waiting, standing just beyond the archway. She smirks when she sees Godric approaching, and as soon as he’s close enough reaches out to tap his coat with her wand. It shimmers, shifting from black to emerald green, and she nods. “Better. Aurors were just arriving as I left, so hopefully everything will be over with shortly.”

Godric grins at her, and though the urge to offer her is arm is present, he refrains. Better that they're not seen together, after all. “Good. Wouldn’t want a commotion like that to ruin our night, would we?”

“The only ruined night is Macnair’s,” Rowena says with no little satisfaction, pushing her glasses up. “Send a Patronus if you need me to rescue you, remember.”

“Yes, yes, I know.” Despite the aggravation, Godric offers her a smile. “Far be it from me to deprive you of the chance to bash a few skulls in, you violent harpy.”

Rowena sniffs, tipping her chin up in a way that might be arrogant if she weren’t trying so hard not to smirk. “You’d better not, Gryffindor. Respect your elders. Or I’ll tell the whole world how Godric Gryffindor tried to seduce Salazar Slytherin on his seventeenth birthday.”

“Not that it _worked_ ,” Godric mutters sourly, because it’s _still_ a sore point.

With a laugh that’s only a little mocking, Rowena pats him on the cheek, then urges him on. “Off with you. Scream if they try to torture you.”

“You're a hag,” Godric tells her, rolling his eyes, then dodges the kick she aims at his ankle and ducks through the archway, letting himself into the pub. It’s entirely crowded, and the barman looks harried, but that makes it easy enough to slip past him and take the stairs up. It’s been almost exactly half an hour, so Godric pauses in the hall, then murmurs a spell. A veil of silver slides across his eyes for a moment, making the swirls of spellwork easy to see against the gloom. There are a few charms here and there, but the fourth room down glows like a beacon, so heavily warded that it puts Macnair’s house to shame.

Of course, there's always a chance that it’s simply a paranoid guest, but Godric is fairly certain it’s for him.

Careful of the spells, he pauses in front of the door and knocks politely, listening for sound from within. It’s well-warded, though; he gets nothing at all until the door actually swings open, and Lupin looks him over warily.

“You’re—” he starts, then stops when he realizes he doesn’t have a name.

“Call me Godric,” Godric tells him cheerfully, because they're absolutely certain to assume it’s a false name.

“Godric,” Lupin repeats, clearly skeptical. He makes a sound of resignation, though, and steps out of the way. “That’s quite the fuss your errand raised, I hope you know.”

“If you're complaining about a Death Eater being unmasked, perhaps we’re not on the same side after all.” Even so, Godric steps past him, into the empty room.

“The others should be here soon,” Lupin offers, and shuts and locks the door.

 _Well_ , Godric thinks, _I can't wait,_ and gives Lupin a bland smile as he takes a seat on the windowsill, back braced against the glass. It will be easy enough to break, if he needs to leave in a hurry, and it’s not an exit most wizards would consider.

Hopefully it won't come to that, but Godric has mixed feelings about how the night is going to go.

 

 

“We found him!” Sirius says, maybe a little too loudly, as he slams into the Grimmauld Place kitchen. Behind him, his mother’s portrait starts shrieking, but with the door shut it’s muffled enough to ignore, and it’s not as if Sirius hasn’t already been ignoring her screeching since he was a child.

Molly startles so hard she drops a loaf of bread, and Bill has to lunge to catch it. On the other side of the table, Kingsley is halfway to his feet, wand in hand, and he looks at Sirius, glances behind him, and then lets out a heavy breath.

“You're going to get yourself hexed one of these days, doing that,” he says, and his tone is amused, but tired. “What’s happened? Where is Remus?”

“Booking a room at the Leaky Cauldron,” Sirius tells him, impatient. “The Heir of Gryffindor is going to meet us there.”

This time it’s Bill who drops the bread, though it thankfully lands on the table rather than the floor. “Gryffindor’s Heir?” he repeats, brows rising sharply towards his hairline.

Kingsley stares for a moment as well, then snorts. “I would have thought he was too busy assaulting Walden Macnair to attend any meetings,” he says wryly. “Tonks was just called in to assist. Apparently the Heir marked him as a Death Eater barely fifteen minutes ago.”

“It couldn’t have happened to a nicer man,” Sirius says, showing teeth. “Remus and I recognized Gryffindor’s Heir from your description while we were out, and he agreed to meet somewhere neutral. I need to get word to Dumbledore.”

“I’ll firecall him,” Molly volunteers, and when Sirius glances at her in some surprise she brushes him off with a brief wave. “Go and hold him there, Sirius. The headmaster should be back in his office by now, so I’ll let him know to meet you.”

Sirius nods his thanks, then turns to leave, only to have Bill follow him into the hall, grabbing his jacket as they pass. When Sirius lifts a brow at him, Bill grins, white and sharp in the low light. “Like I'm going to miss meeting a man descended from the greatest duelist to ever live,” he says, over the painting’s shrieks about blood traitors. “I'm off for the night anyway.”

Sirius grins back, and as soon as they hit the stairs leading down he says, “Upstairs in the Leaky Cauldron,” and turns sharply on his heel. The new wand, purchased just that afternoon with Remus now that he’s legally allowed one, still feels vaguely stiff and unfamiliar, but he doesn’t splinch himself, so that’s a plus. Bill is an instant behind him, and he touches down with a hard thump of boots.

There's a pause, and then the door at the far end of the hall creaks open. Remus sticks his head out, smiles in relief at the sight of them, and beckons them closer.

“Send a Patronus next time, Padfoot,” he says, a little dryly. “You almost gave me a heart attack Apparating in like that.”

“Sorry, Moony.” Sirius grins at him apologetically, doesn’t bother to say that he probably couldn’t call up a Patronus if his life depended on it. Not enough happiness left for that, and what happiness he once had is dim and half-fogged by his time in Azkaban. Remus doesn’t need to know that, though—he already deals with Sirius’s nightmares as it is.

Remus smiles back at him, lets their hands brush as Sirius ducks past into the room. It looks precisely the same as the last time Sirius stayed here as a teenager, right down to the sheets on the bed, and he glances over everything, takes it in and—

The man perched on the windowsill grins at him, sharp enough to draw blood. Sirius had been expecting that hooded cloak, the concealing black coat, but instead the man looks…normal, almost. Except he doesn’t, because there's a light in green eyes that sends a shiver of some instinctive animal wariness bolting down Sirius’s spine. The Heir is young, looks younger than Sirius, with ruby-red hair half-hidden under a hat, a nose that looks like it’s been broken several times, and scars scattered across his face and throat.

The way he’s holding himself, even mostly relaxed, says _threat_ , though, loudly enough to make even Sirius wary.

“Sirius, Bill.” Remus gives them both a faintly strained smile as he shuts the door, and Sirius doesn’t want to contemplate what being in a small room with a man like that is doing to Remus’s instincts. “This is…”

“You can call me Godric,” the Heir says, smile unwavering, and somehow that’s eerier than the look in his eyes. Cold and calculating, Sirius thinks, and has to swallow at the memory of cornering him in the street. If he and Remus had been able to see his face, they might have followed at a distance, rather than confronting him. “It’s a family name.”

At Sirius’s side, Bill makes an interested sound, eyes flickering down to Godric’s hip. “That really is the Sword of Gryffindor,” he says with enthusiasm that’s only mostly contained, and Sirius frowns, looks at him, and looks back at Godric.

Godric blinks, tilting his head. “You can see it?” he asks, dropping his hand onto—

Not empty air, Sirius realizes. The sword, shining silver with a ruby set into the pommel, encased in a dark scabbard.

Bill grins. “I'm good at picking out concealment charms,” he says.

Godric appraises him for a moment, then smiles back. “Still, well spotted,” he says, and leans back. “You're all Order members, I take it?”

“We are,” Remus confirms, and when he takes a seat on the bed Sirius casually drops down to sit next to him, leaning his weight into Remus’s side. Remus gives him a grateful fraction of a smile, and a little of the tension goes out of him.

“Bill Weasley,” Bill offers, and doesn’t hesitate to hold out his hand as he steps closer.

Green eyes flicker over him, putting Sirius in mind of nothing less than some big cat sizing up its next meal, but Godric simply accepts it, grasping Bill’s hand in return. Another pause, like Godric is weighing him, and the man inclines his head. “It’s nice to meet you,” he says lightly, and it actually sounds like he means it. As Bill steps back, though, his gaze flickers over to Sirius, and he asks, “Will Professor Dumbledore not be joining us, then?”

It’s not as though it’s _difficult_ for anyone to guess who leads the Order, but to hear him say it so plainly is a little startling. “We have someone trying to reach him,” Sirius says, then hesitates. It’s likely they should wait for Dumbledore to ask any questions, but there's one that’s been itching at Sirius since he first heard about Peter’s capture.

“Why?” he bursts out before he can stop himself. “Why go after Peter first? There had to be other Death Eaters that were easier to find.”

A long, slow blink, like a cat, and Godric’s smile sharpens. “Do you want the tactical answer, or the sentimental one?” he asks, and Sirius has to swallow a bark of laughter at the thought of this man being sentimental, _ever_. Thankfully, before Sirius can likely offend him by saying so, he keeps going. “Pettigrew’s capture was an opening salvo. The Sicilian Defense, taking control of the center of the chessboard before the black side has a chance to advance its cause. Voldemort hasn’t managed to put any pieces into play yet, not in a way that has any relevance to the war. I'm going to capture all of his pieces before he can, and leave him vulnerable.” A thin slash of a grin, all teeth. “And then it will be checkmate.”

Well that’s not an unnerving way of looking at it _at all_ , Sirius thinks wryly, though Remus, who’s always been far fonder of chess, is nodding like it makes sense. The hand curled around Sirius’s tightens slightly, and then Remus asks, “And the sentimental?”

Sirius almost, _almost_ pinches Remus for that, because clearly the man was joking and Sirius _knows_ that Remus does in fact have a sense of humor. But rather than scoffing, Godric just—

Softens. He doesn’t stop smiling, but in a moment some of the edges have been worn down, filed away. The entire set of his face eases, and for a second he no longer looks as if he’s a predator trapped in a cage, but a man like any other. He looks away for a moment, and when he looks back to meet Remus’s gaze his eyes seem lighter, the color of new grass.

“Because a boy lost his parents,” Godric says simply. “They were stolen from him, and his godfather was taken away, and I could fix at least part of that and hurt Voldemort at the same time. So I did.”

And— _Merlin_ but Sirius wants this to be _real_. He wants this man to be everything he claims to be, just for that. Because no one else in the world cared, or thought Sirius’s case was anything other than what it appeared on the surface, except for one man.

“How did you even _know_?” he demands, bewilderment and gratitude all tangled up together.

Godric laughs at that, warm and startlingly pleasant, and grins at Sirius with a mirth that makes his face into something else entirely. Something almost _familiar_ , though Sirius can't quite put his finger on it. It’s gone before he can pinpoint it, regardless, as Godric tips his head, and that danger is sliding back into his features like it never left. “A man’s got to have some secrets, Black. Let me hang onto my aura of mystery a little while longer, hmm?”

“I really don’t think that’s going to be a problem for you,” Sirius tells him, halfway to a joke, and it makes him grin, sharp teeth and intent. And—maybe this should be about determining whether or not Godric is who he says he is, but Sirius realizes with a bit of wry amusement that he already believes the man. Sirius hadn’t been quite sure what to expect from the Heir of Gryffindor, but now that he’s met Godric he can't imagine him any other way.

“This is all going to push Voldemort right ‘round the bend,” Bill says, halfway between admiration and a warning. He folds his arms over his chest, looking thoughtful, and adds, “You can't get to every Death Eater before he makes his first move. Not unless there are a lot more of you than I would assume.”

Godric chuckles. “Get him angry and he’ll get sloppy,” he says easily, like the rage of a Dark Lord is a simple thing, easily weathered. “I have his weakness, and as soon as he comes to confront me I'm going to wave it in his face. Watch him panic a bit, in payback for at least a little of the grief he’s caused.”

Which is an appealing thought, Sirius allows. A _hell_ of an appealing thought, really. The idea of Voldemort running scared isn’t something he’s ever thought to picture, but he definitely likes it.

“It might make Harry a target,” Remus says quietly, and Sirius stiffens, panic aptly fluttering in his throat at the thought. Merlin, Harry is the only thing he has _left_ besides Remus. The only remnant of James and Lily, and Sirius _can't_ lose him, not when things are finally coming together—

Remus grips his hand a little more tightly, leans into his shoulder to ground him. He’s a big man, though with the way he carries himself it’s easy to forget sometimes, and the press of him is familiar enough to jar a shaky breath back into Sirius’s lungs.

There's a moment of silence, and then Godric says quietly, “Harry Potter was the first in _centuries_ to draw this sword.” His fingers ghost across the ruby in the hilt, and he smiles a little, that same soft smile from before. “And he’s the one who defeated Voldemort every other time he rose. Believe me, there is nothing I want less than to put Harry in danger. Protecting him is my priority, even over capturing Death Eaters.”

Strangely, Sirius finds that he believes those words. Believes that Godric actually means them, and will keep them. Something about the look on his face, he thinks, steady and solemn, like he knows just how valuable Harry is not just as a pawn against Voldemort but as a _person_.

It’s something Sirius still has trouble remembering sometimes, that Harry is a person outside of his ties to James. But—Godric seems to understand that.

Before he can say anything, a soft knock interrupts them. Bill slides over to open the door, blocking the view into the room with his body as he checks who it is, but a moment later he’s stepping back, pulling the door with him so Dumbledore can enter. The headmaster is still dressed for the day, robes as blue as a robin’s egg and scattered with lavender stars, and he smiles warmly at all four of them as he steps inside.

“The Heir of Gryffindor, I take it?” he asks lightly, as his gaze lands on Godric. “Truly, this is an pleasure.”

Godric pushes to his feet, bowing to the headmaster. “I hope it didn’t cause you any worry when I called the sword to me, Professor,” he says politely. “I'm afraid I was rather eager to take Pettigrew, and may have overlooked other details in my haste.”

Pale blue eyes twinkle with amusement, and Dumbledore chuckles. “None at all, my boy,” he says amiably. “Hogwarts keeps her treasures close, and I thought she had simply returned that one to where she usually keeps it. I'm glad it ended up in good hands, however.”

Godric puts his hand on the hilt of his sword, lifting his head. “Hands with a duty,” he says, holding the headmaster’s gaze, and in that instant he’s a predator again, focused and feral. “One I intend to see through, with the Order or without it. The choice is yours, Professor.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [headshots](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13744431) by [starfleur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starfleur/pseuds/starfleur)




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